Outpost in Time

by Sarah Woodbury

“It looks like they just arrived too, but I don’t—” He broke off, looking like Aine from the castle to the lights, his brow furrowed. “I don’t think anyone on the battlements can see them.”

  “You were right not to light a torch, Christopher,” she said. “It means nobody can see us either.”

  More lights were arriving every second. Christopher drew in a breath. “It’s an army. What are the chances it’s friendly?”

  “Not high! Come on, before they discover that we’re here!” Aine dug in her heels, and her horse leapt forward.

  Christopher couldn’t do anything but follow, even though inside he was asking himself if this was really the right choice. They were riding towards a castle, the owner of which might really not like them, and if the army that had arrived was intent on besieging the castle, entering it could trap them for the foreseeable future. He really didn’t want to be trapped.

  But by the time he caught up with Aine, they’d traveled the last mile to the castle at a gallop. The drawbridge was down, the gate open, and the portcullis up, since a farm cart was just crossing underneath it on its way to dispose of the pile of refuse in its bed—never mind that it was ten o’clock at night. Maybe that’s when the castle was cleaned, which Christopher supposed made sense. Like the latrines, it was best to do the cleaning when fewer people were around.

  By the time they got close, the guard on the battlement could hear them, even if he couldn’t yet see them clearly. They’d come straight down the road from the east, so it wasn’t like he could have missed them if he was at all good at his job. As they slowed, he appeared in the entrance to the castle behind the cart. Before Aine could ride across the drawbridge, he spread his arms wide, telling them in Gaelic to stop (“Fai!”). Then he caught the bridle of Aine’s horse as she reined in, speaking more Gaelic to her. She answered.

  As Christopher reined in too, he noted the wide-eyed look the guard sent him and said in an undertone to Aine, “Did you tell him that we need to speak to King O’Connor right now?”

  “I told him that you are the Hero of Westminster and that you’ve come to warn them of an army on their doorstep.”

  Christopher almost laughed aloud. “That should do it.” He turned to look at the guard and said in English. “Let us in. I must speak to your lord immediately.”

  The guard probably didn’t understand Christopher any more than Christopher had understood the guard, but Christopher had spoken commandingly, and the guard bobbed his head. He turned into the gatehouse, tugging on the bridle of Aine’s horse with her still astride. Christopher followed. Now that they were up close, the castle was even bigger than he’d thought. The giant curtain wall, which fronted the moat, was thirty feet high and at least ten feet thick.

  Once through the gatehouse, Christopher put out a hand. “Can you tell them to pull up the drawbridge and drop the portcullis? It makes me antsy to think of the army out there.”

  Aine responded immediately, speaking to the man in Gaelic. He frowned, looking like he was going to argue, but then Christopher made an impatient movement with his hand. The guard nodded his head again and spoke sharply to a companion still in the gatehouse, who then ran to do his bidding.

  They entered the outer ward only to be faced with a second, massive gatehouse, and it was only after they passed through that final defense that they reached the inner ward of the castle.

  The ward wasn’t busy at this hour of the night, though several men-at-arms came down from the interior wall to bolster the guard in case Christopher decided to arbitrarily attack someone. Reaching up to Aine, he helped her to dismount. Once her feet were on the stones of the inner ward and someone was leading away their horses, he turned with her towards the keep. The building was long and relatively low, built into the north wall of the inner ward. The guard gestured to them with one hand and a bit of a bow, and they followed him up the steps and through the door.

  A wave of warmth hit them. Despite the inherent tension of the moment, Christopher felt his shoulders relax, and Aine took in a breath and let it out. But then, to Christopher’s dismay, a guard appeared, bowing and apologetic, and motioned that Christopher must give up his sword. As in England, nobody was allowed to enter the presence of the king wearing one.

  Christopher had known from the very first day in the Middle Ages how important it was for him to wear a sword as a sign of his station. But until today, he hadn’t wanted one for its own sake. He certainly hadn’t appreciated how clearly having a sword defined him. It told every man here that Christopher was noble born and worthy of respect. So while it was hard to give up, he did so willingly. It was clear that the sword had gotten them in the door, and because he was the Hero of Westminster, there was a good chance they were going to bypass all the underlings and speak directly to the king himself.

  An older man with a white beard, wearing a long tunic belted at the waist (but without a sword), met them a few paces from the door. He and the guard conferred in low tones. Christopher tried to wait patiently, but he couldn’t get the image of the lights behind the ridge out of his mind. An enemy army was here, and the longer these two men talked, the less time they would have to come up with a plan to deal with it.

  Which was absurd, really, since Christopher had never fought in a battle and had no business being part of any kind of planning. But then again, nobody here knew that. He found his right knee jiggling restlessly and forced himself to relax. Finally, the second man, the castle steward by Christopher’s guess, dismissed the guard and gestured that they should come with him. He led them down the long hall, mostly empty of diners at this hour, to a stairway in the back corner. They went up one flight and the steward knocked at the door, opening it at a command from a man inside.

  The steward held up a hand to indicate that Christopher and Aine should wait in the corridor, and he entered the room first, leaving the door partially open so Christopher could see him conferring with a man who sat in a chair by the fire. He was thick around the shoulders, but not overweight, and from the gray at his temples, he appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties.

  As with the guard, they conferred in Gaelic, but then the man looked towards the door, and Christopher inadvertently met his eyes.

  There was an uncomfortable moment, but Christopher didn’t look away so much as bob his head in greeting. That seemed to go over okay, because the man waved Christopher and Aine into the room.

  Up until now, the only Irish house Christopher had visited belonged to Aine’s father. The decorations in this room were hardly different from what he had seen at Westminster Palace—probably because when the O’Connors had taken Roscommon, the English who’d surrendered the castle had left most of their stuff behind.

  This particular room appeared to be the king’s private chambers. A door at the far end of the room was open, allowing Christopher to see beyond it to a canopied bed with red curtains. The office had two tables, one with chairs around it, implying that people might eat at it more privately than in the great hall below, and a second table that was stacked with papers. The fire was burning brightly, and Hugh O’Connor had been reading a rolled parchment.

  As Christopher and Aine entered, Christopher couldn’t help but grin to see the King of Connaught holding a pair of Benjamin Franklin-type reading glasses in his right hand.

  “My steward gave me your names,” he said in French. “What brings the Hero of Westminster to Connaught?”

  Aine glanced at Christopher, as if waiting for him to speak. She was pretty outspoken with him and his friends, but this was the Middle Ages, and they were in the presence of a king.

  “Will you translate for me?” Christopher said. “My French really isn’t that good.”

  “You would prefer English?” Hugh said.

  Christopher gave a sigh of relief. “Yes, please. I’m sorry that I can’t return the favor. I speak no Gaelic.”

  “No matter. I had tutors.” He eyed Christopher for a moment. “To defeat one’s enemy, one must firs
t know him, yes?” Then, ignoring Christopher’s startled look, he gestured towards several chairs placed against the wall, and the steward hastily moved them so Christopher and Aine could sit near the fire. Then the steward departed. Christopher dared to hope for food and drink, because he was starving.

  Clearing his throat, hoping that they hadn’t made a huge mistake in coming here, Christopher glanced once at Aine and then related as clearly as he could how the day had gone for them and why they had come to Roscommon.

  After the first startled curse at what had happened at Trim, Hugh listened intently, leaning slightly forward.

  “And now you have an army on your doorstep,” Christopher concluded. “I don’t know who leads it, but it’s here, and you have very little time to decide what you’re going to do about it.”

  “We defend, of course. What else?”

  Christopher had an idea of what else, actually, but before he could say it, someone knocked at the door.

  Hugh surged to his feet, revealing himself to be the same height as Christopher, and went to open it. “What?”

  The steward was waiting on the other side, wringing his hands. “I’m sorry to disturb you, my lord, but you have another visitor: a monk from Bective Abbey has brought a message from David!”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Dublin

  Callum

  Having dined with Magnus Godfridson in Oxmantown, they’d left him preparing his people to march. Thus, it was well into evening by the time David and Callum approached the first defense of Dublin: the gate that protected the bridge across the Liffey River. The moon shone brightly, reflecting off the water and lighting up the night as much as the torches on the gatehouse tower. A guard came down from the top of the wall to meet them.

  “What’s your bet?” David said. “They gonna admit us? Maybe we shouldn’t tell them who we are.”

  “As I’ve been telling you over and over, you haven’t a hope of remaining anonymous. You will be recognized.”

  Before David could deny this obvious truth, a rider came pounding up the road behind him and called to the watchers on the gatehouse tower. “David is dead! David is dead! Trim Castle is controlled by rebels, and all of Ireland is about to fall!” He reined in before the astonished guard at the gate and dismounted.

  “Not again,” Callum said.

  David sighed and trotted up to the gatehouse. Reining in beside the messenger, he pushed back his hood and spoke while the rider and the guard were still trying to catch their breaths. “I am not dead, and all of Ireland has not fallen. You do your countrymen a great disservice to be spreading such falsehoods.”

  Both the messenger and the guard gaped at David, who was still astride his horse, but then they bowed deeply. “I apologize, my lord,” the rider said. “I reported only what I was told.”

  David canted his head, graciously accepting the apology, though his eyes were intent. “That does not mean, however, that we aren’t in danger and don’t have work to do.”

  Callum looked at the guard. “Are we three the first to bring you news of Trim? Has there been a change in authority at Dublin Castle?”

  “No, my lord! Lord Falkes remains in charge.”

  “We will go to him now,” Callum said. “You need to drop the portcullis behind us and let nobody in until you hear from me again. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, my lord!” The guard nodded fervently.

  David jerked his head to the rider. “Come with us.”

  The rider’s eyes were too wide, but he did as David asked, and they rode across the bridge to the gate that would allow them entrance to the city proper. Dublin had started out hundreds of years ago as a Danish city—the main Danish center in Ireland, in fact, along with Waterford and Wexford. Through these three towns, the Danes had carved out a small kingdom for themselves and worked to expand their influence in Ireland. It was from here too that they’d established a mercantile empire that stretched from Ireland to Rome. They’d been similar to the Templars in that, except they hadn’t been Christian and one of their biggest exports had been slaves.

  The power of the Danes began to wane by the twelfth century, and the coming of the Normans broke it entirely. Two years after Strongbow’s arrival, King Henry II of England showed up and demanded allegiance and land. Henry became Lord of Ireland, and Strongbow gave him Waterford and Dublin (in exchange for his life). The Danes who’d remained in Dublin under Strongbow’s rule were moved to Oxmantown, across the Liffey River, and eastern Ireland was filled with English settlers. Henry gave his loyal barons the rest of the country, provided they could wrest it from the Irish lords who controlled it. Strongbow died soon after.

  David, in turn, had found his rule of Ireland so unpalatable that one of his first acts after he’d become king was to devolve much of the authority for Dublin and Waterford to the people who lived there. Once David granted them status as free market towns, they had the right of self-governance, on par with any other free market English town—though David still held ultimate authority.

  He retained Dublin Castle too, and in a move that could have been construed as both shrewd and risky, he’d placed John de Falkes in charge of it, in an attempt to find someone who was a good administrator but had no stake himself in how things went in Ireland. Since the border with Scotland had been at peace for many years—though with Comyn involved in the rebellion in Ireland that might be about to change—David had considered Falkes wasted at Carlisle. And David had needed someone whose loyalty was unassailable. Between Falkes and their two hundred archers, David had a formidable force at his disposal, if they could just get to it.

  Callum’s eyes remained fixed on the watchtower up ahead. “I hope what the guard just told us is true.”

  “You’re the one who taught me how to brazen things out and act like I know what I am doing,” David said. “Don’t fail me now.”

  Callum tsked under his breath. “Never.”

  “I know you won’t.”

  Callum turned his head to look at David, who was regarding him with a grave expression, the joking put aside. Callum returned David’s look with a quick nod. Then, as they reached the gatehouse, Callum lifted his chin and bellowed, “David, King of England and Lord of Ireland, demands entry!” In borrowed clothes, without a single flag or banner indicating who they were, words would have to do.

  A flurry of activity was evident from the other side of the portcullis, which slowly began to ratchet up. Shouts and calls came from inside the city, and a bell in the gatehouse tower rang a warning. Callum’s stomach clenched, and he almost grabbed the bridle of David’s horse and made him turn around. But then, through the portcullis, he could see people coming out of their houses and shops, despite the late hour. One woman pointed at them, a hand to her mouth, and a father swung his toddler onto his shoulders so he could see better. The people weren’t shouting in fear. They were genuinely eager to see David.

  By the time Callum and David passed underneath the gatehouse, the street was full of people. Lines formed on either side of the gatehouse. Without even trying, David had worked his magic here too. Even though Callum had just explained that reality to David, he still had to shake his head in disbelief. David might argue that he hadn’t done anything. He had argued, in fact, that in Ireland he’d done all the wrong things. But his reputation had preceded him, grown, and expanded over the years, and he would use it, as he had used it in England, when he needed to.

  While in a cynical moment David might have said that the people of Dublin liked him because he allowed them to keep most of the money they made, these people clearly didn’t have any cynical feelings about him. As they entered the streets of Dublin, the welcoming cheers felt genuine. David laughed, and then he reached down and began to shake the hands of the people who lined the road.

  While David was occupied, Callum’s eyes went to the surrounding houses and shops, looking for threats, though mostly he saw people smiling and waving, hanging out of windows and scrambling on rooftops i
n order to see the king.

  So he turned to the messenger, whose name was Tom and had been born and bred in Dublin. “Why did you say that David was dead?”

  “That’s-that’s what I was told.”

  “By whom?”

  “By—” He paused, and then his expression grew thoughtful. “My captain sent me here on the orders of Lord Cusack, who is one of the besiegers of Trim.”

  Callum growled under his breath. “Cusack.” If he had been truly medieval, he might have spat on the ground. “You are from Kells?”

  The rider ducked his head. “Killeen.” That was one of the Cusack strongholds east of Trim and south of Skryne and Tara.

  “What did he say about who it was that murdered the men at Trim?”

  “It was the bastard Irish, that’s who, my lord! They were to meet in peace without weapons, and the Irish delegates turned on our lords without warning! They now hold Trim against the king!”

  “How is it that men like the O’Brien chief ended up dead, then?”

  “Well, we fought back, didn’t we?”

  Callum definitely had a headache coming on. The story the boy was telling was a twisted mass of untruths and deception. That Cusack would want it told was confusing too. Informing the men of Dublin that the Irish delegates had turned on their English counterparts appealed to their biases, but Cusack was aligned with Irish lords. How was he going to explain that when it came time to ask the men of Dublin to fight alongside them? “Did he say what the people of Dublin were supposed to do?”

  “He believes that the Irish of Leinster, led by Niall MacMurrough, are marching north as we speak. Aymer de Valence has joined the Irish cause, and I was to warn Lord Falkes of their coming so he could prepare to hold the city against them.”

  Callum stared at Tom. “The MacMurroughs and Valence are themselves allied with Cusack. They have to be, since Cusack besieges Trim with Red Comyn, Valence’s brother-in-law.”

  Tom frowned. “That can’t be true. My lord had nothing to do with the uprising at Trim.”