Exiles in Time (The After Cilmeri Series)

by Sarah Woodbury

  “So what’s stopping you?” Callum said. “Life is short, man. How much longer are you going to wait?”

  Samuel picked at the food on the trencher in front of him. “I will speak to her in my own time, my lord.”

  Callum backed off. He’d been speaking casually to Samuel—as a friend—but this was the Middle Ages and the difference in their stations meant that some of what he had said could be interpreted as an order. “I’m sorry,” Callum said. “It’s none of my business. I won’t speak of it again.”

  Samuel nodded and rose to his feet. “I’ll make another circuit.”

  Callum watched him go. The man was in love and afraid of his feelings. Of course, Callum was hardly one to talk. When was the last time he’d allowed himself to get that close to anyone?

  As an agent in the security services, dating had always been fraught with peril. Callum had dated women in pursuit of information more often than in pursuit of a real relationship. Real dates were more challenging. Callum didn’t know any coworkers who didn’t find the lies exhausting after a few dates. For Callum’s part, he had gone back and forth. Sometimes he’d preferred superficial interactions to telling lies. In the months before he’d come to medieval Britain, however, he’d been looking for something more.

  Callum had been with his last girlfriend, Emma, only a few weeks before he’d traveled to the Middle Ages. It hadn’t been long enough to know how she would have come to view his erratic schedule, less-than-helpful explanations about his job, and lack of forthcomingness in general. Not to mention his demeanor, which other women had occasionally described as ‘wooden’. By the time he’d disappeared, she hadn’t yet caught on to his obsession with how his hands smelled.

  Emma had been expecting Callum for dinner on the night he’d fallen from the balcony at Chepstow Castle. He found it likely that it hadn’t taken long for her to move on from him.

  Darkness had enclosed the castle and the meal was drawing to a close by the time Callum approached the high table where Falkes sat with the other noblemen. For the meal, James Stewart had found a place among them, with Robbie attending him. Callum had taken a seat near the upper end of one of the long tables, though not below the salt.

  Callum came to a halt on the opposite side of the table from Falkes’s seat. He didn’t put his heels together or bow but only said, “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  Falkes looked up at Callum and frowned. “Who are you?”

  James had watched Callum approach the dais with bright eyes, and now a look of delight crossed his face. He leapt to his feet and came closer. “My Lord Falkes, may I introduce to you the Lord Callum, Earl of Shrewsbury and King David’s personal representative to the nation of Scotland.”

  Falkes had good control because his mouth opened only slightly—and then he was on his feet, bowing. “I apologize, my lord. I did not know who you were. Please—” He gestured to the seat next to him that Kirby had just vacated.

  Callum had purposely waited until the bishop left before coming to talk to Falkes. His words were for Falkes’s ears alone. While David had entrusted these negotiations to Kirby, Callum wasn’t going to trust him with anything else. And certainly not with tidbits of David’s history that nobody else needed to know.

  Still grinning, James made his way back to his seat at the far end of the table.

  Falkes waited until Callum sat before sitting himself, and then he straightened his shoulders. With another bow of his head, he said, “I apologize for not greeting you earlier. I did not know that King David had sent a personal representative of your stature with the company. Bishop Kirby never mentioned that you were here. I would have made a place of honor for you at the high table.” Falkes’s face flushed. He was very angry, but not at Callum.

  “I don’t offend easily, and my role is not Kirby’s,” Callum said. “I was content with where I sat. The beer was just as good.”

  Falkes allowed himself a wisp of a smile, but he still had a ‘v’ of concern between his brows. “Nonetheless, I ask your forgiveness.” Falkes cleared his throat. “Please give my greetings to the king when you see him next.”

  Callum was inordinately pleased, now that it came to it, that Kirby had snubbed him so profoundly. Because he’d slighted Callum publically, without a commensurate response on Callum’s part, Kirby had given Callum power over him. There might come a time when Callum could take advantage of Kirby’s pettiness.

  “King David speaks well of you. He sent me with a specific message for your ears alone,” Callum said to Falkes.

  Falkes was sitting so upright he could have had a steel rod up his spine. “I’m sure I have done nothing to earn the king’s attention.”

  His response told Callum that Falkes truly didn’t know who David was and how he knew him. “You are loyal to him, are you not?” Callum said.

  “Of course!” Falkes half rose from his seat. “What is this? Who do you take me for?”

  “I take you for a man who serves his king with honor,” Callum said, willing to appease him now that he had Falkes where he wanted him. It was really too bad David couldn’t be here to witness this.

  Falkes sat back, mollified. “I have seen with my own eyes what England has suffered these years without a strong hand to guide her. It would be anarchy up here if not for a few good men who hold the north for the crown.”

  Callum studied Falkes a moment before he enlightened him: “King David asks for confirmation of your loyalty because the last time you and he met, it was under less than ideal circumstances. He wanted to assure himself that you bear him no grudge, as he bears none for you.”

  Falkes went very still. “I-I’m not sure I understand. What could I have done to arouse King David’s ire? I would remember if I’d met him.”

  “He asked that I prod your memory,” Callum said. “Nearly four years ago, you encountered a young Welshman and his companion along Hadrian’s Wall. The year before, his mother had rescued your nephew, Thomas, who’d been captured by Scottish marauders. King David spent some hours in the cell at the back of your stables.”

  David had so wanted to be here to see Falkes’s reaction to this news, and Falkes didn’t disappoint. “I didn’t-I didn’t—” Falkes’s face drained of all color and he swallowed hard.

  “The King understands that you meant no disrespect and acknowledges that he didn’t tell you at the time that he was the Prince of Wales,” Callum said.

  Falkes was already recovering from the shock of Callum’s revelation, and acceptance of his new reality wasn’t far behind. “I must tell you that I would not have treated him better had I known his true identity.” Falkes paused. “And yet, even with the history between us, he leaves me as castellan of Carlisle?”

  “He has first-hand knowledge of how vigilantly you patrol the north for him,” Callum said. “Do you pledge to continue with your task?”

  Falkes gave a sharp jerk of his head. “Yes.”

  Callum was pleased to see no hesitation in Falkes’s manner. “King David wanted you to know who he was before you answered his call to come to the Tower of London at midsummer.”

  “The Tower—what did you say?” said Falkes.

  “King David is summoning all his castellans and his sheriffs to him,” Callum said. “He met many when he journeyed across England before Christmas, but he wants to consult with you all at the same time, to discuss your views and opinions on the needs of his country.”

  Falkes swallowed down whatever objections he had been about to voice. “I will be there.”

  “Good.” Callum rose to his feet. “Please bring your nephew with you when you come.”

  Falkes clenched his teeth. “Of course.”

  Callum had been about to leave, but the ferocity in Falkes’s face had him sitting down again. “The King has no plans to make Thomas hostage to your good behavior, if that is what you fear.”

  It had been. If David were to go that route, it certainly wouldn’t be without precedent. In the past, it was common
practice for a king or lord to hold a man’s loved ones hostage to ensure that a lord obeyed him in all things. More than one Welsh son had lost his life when his father had found the king’s commands untenable.

  Falkes leaned forward. “Your news disturbs me. You tell me that King David holds no grudge against me, but I remember him. I remember that my men hunted him through the countryside. One of them wounded his companion. How can he forgive that? If I come to London, he will have my head.”

  “Is that the man King David is?” Callum said. “You’ve had an ear to the ground since he took the throne. That’s what your spies tell you of his character?”

  “William de Valence has fled to France,” said Falkes. “He feared the king’s wrath.”

  “Valence plotted against King David’s life,” Callum said. “He’s lucky not to be in the Tower of London with the rest of his co-conspirators—or without his head. The King has forgiven far worse crimes than yours since he took the throne of England. Unlike Valence, you were only doing what you saw as your duty. He knows it.”

  Falkes sat back in his chair. “What of Scotland?”

  “What of it?” Callum said.

  “Bishop Kirby tells me that King David seeks a peaceful answer to the question of succession and does not put forth his own claim to the throne. Kirby says that King David does not seek it.”

  “That’s true. He has no desire for the crown of Scotland on his head,” Callum said.

  Falkes started to scoff his disbelief again but then stopped himself. “You are right that I have no evidence or reason to disbelieve my king. I am loyal to the crown of England. I am loyal to King David if it is my loyalty he wants.”

  “He wants it,” Callum said. “That is as he hoped.”

  Falkes reached for his cup of wine, though his hand shook as he grasped the stem, and he did not attempt to bring the cup to his mouth. “Margaret.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The woman, Margaret, who rescued Thomas. She is the Queen of Wales, then?”

  “Indeed. She is King David’s mother,” Callum said.

  Falkes put his head in his hands as the delayed realization hit him. Callum could hardly blame him. It was a lot to take in. Then Falkes dropped his hands. He jerked his chin as if to say okay, moving on. “While I should have known that he was more than he said, God protected him from my hand. If you say that King David forgives my treatment of him, I believe you.” Falkes scooted back his chair and stood. He bowed low. “Please tell the king that I will come to London at midsummer.”

  Callum stood to match him. “He will be pleased to see you.”

  “Uncle?”

  Callum and Falkes turned to see a teenager approaching. He wore a surcoat with two doves on it.

  Falkes held out his hand to the boy. “Thomas, this is Lord Callum, Earl of Shrewsbury. King David sent him to greet both of us.”

  “My lord.” Thomas bowed. “You have honored Carlisle with your presence.”

  Falkes made an impatient gesture with his hand, though Thomas’s greeting had been very professionally done. “Did you want something?” said Falkes.

  “Just to tell you that Bishop Kirby has retired for the evening,” Thomas said.

  Falkes nodded.

  “I will retire as well.” Callum lifted a hand to Falkes and then stepped off the dais. Thinking it was time to find Samuel again, he headed down the length of the hall towards the great doors.

  Thomas fell into step beside Callum. “I heard what you said to my uncle.”

  Callum glanced at him, surprised. “Did you really? I didn’t see you nearby and your uncle and I weren’t speaking loudly.”

  “Robbie Bruce and I sat together a few seats down from my uncle. You didn’t see me because I had my back to him. But I have good hearing.”

  “So you know who King David is?” Callum said.

  Thomas shot Callum a grin tinged with satisfaction. “I knew all along he wasn’t a simple merchant.”

  “He has a message for you too,” Callum said.

  Thomas glanced up, his eyes glinting. Callum could see why David wanted to be remembered to him. Anyone who had the audacity to set Carlisle’s stables on fire as a diversion in order to free David and Ieuan from their captivity—against his uncle’s express wishes—was worth a second look.

  “King David says, ‘thank you’.”

  “I was glad he got away.” Thomas grinned again, but then his smile faded and his face fell. “You didn’t say anything to my uncle about the manner of the king’s escape, did you?”

  They’d reached the door to the hall. Before answering, Callum allowed the guard to open the door and let them pass through it. Once at the bottom of the exterior steps, Callum pulled Thomas to one side. “Your uncle still doesn’t know who set fire to the stables and freed his prisoners?”

  “No. And I’d prefer he never knew,” Thomas said.

  “Your uncle might thank you now,” Callum said.

  Thomas looked back towards the hall. “He might.” Then he shivered. “I’d be afraid to tell him though.”

  “Then tell him this,” Callum said. “Tell him that he has nothing to fear from King David.”

  Chapter Three

  Callum

  Samuel pushed back his hood and straightened in his saddle. He used his shield like an umbrella to protect himself from the rain and turned this way and that, surveying their surroundings. “This doesn’t feel right.” His gaze went to Callum and then to Liam, who rode on Callum’s other side.

  Liam nodded his agreement. “It’s too quiet. Where are the birds and the animals? It’s raining, but it often rains here. It should affect them little.”

  While much of Scotland had been denuded of trees, cut down for firewood and prevented from growing back by free roaming cattle and sheep, this was one place where the trees enclosed the road. More trees covered the hills that rose up on either side of the road, marking the border between lowland and highland Scotland.

  Callum hunched over his horse, tugging his cloak closer against the rain. The clouds had come in the moment they’d crossed the border into Scotland. They’d spent last night in Glasgow and were headed today for Stirling Castle, one of the ancient royal seats of the Scottish crown, twenty miles away as the crow flies, though longer as they were taking it. One of the Guardians, William Fraser, Bishop of St. Andrews, had so far managed to keep the castle out of the hands of both Balliol and Bruce, for the good of Scotland. All of Scotland’s Guardians, along with its Parliament, were to gather there in a few days’ time.

  Stirling Castle sat at the mouth of the Firth of Forth and was the closest royal castle to the Highlands, which stretched north from the road they were presently on, all the way to the North Sea. In the last six months, Callum had come to understand some of the difficulties involved in ruling Wales, a small country with many petty princes and lords. Though England was larger and richer, it was actually less complicated politically. Scotland, however, was another story entirely. Few kings had ever managed to rule the entire country. Dozens of clans held their own lands, ruled them as mini-kingdoms, and fought among themselves with little interference from the king, as long as the fighting didn’t overflow into another lord’s domains.

  It was an arrangement similar to that which the Marcher barons had enjoyed in their lands on the border of Wales and England—until Wales had gained the upper hand upon the death of King Edward. Now that David was the King of England, he was beginning to reel in the Marcher barons even more and diminish their power in the March. The next Scottish king would want to do the same for the clans he ruled.

  At this moment, however, with no ruling king, the balance of power lay between the Bruces and the Balliols. All the other clans lined up on whichever side they owed the greatest loyalty, through family ties or precedence.

  A strong breeze caught Callum’s hood and swept it off his head. He reached back to pull it up again, half-turning towards Samuel, who was still scanning the hills to the northwe
st. Callum shielded his eyes so the rain couldn’t fall directly into them. “What do you see?” he said.

  “Nothing,” Samuel said. “That’s the problem.”

  Callum peered upwards, tracing the line of the hill that rose up from the road immediately to the left. It might be May and the sun in the sky for twelve hours a day, but that didn’t make Scotland any brighter on the days when clouds covered the sky from horizon to horizon, as they had all that day. The company had made slow progress through the murk, all the more so because of Kirby’s carriage.

  By now, every man in the company was cursing Kirby’s refusal to ride. Ever since Carlisle, they’d had to stop every hour, or multiple times an hour, to unstick Kirby’s wheels from the mud. In addition, nobody had told Kirby that most rivers in Scotland weren’t crossed by bridges, even on the main roads. Every time they reached a ford, Kirby had fussed about the possibility of getting wet. It was very trying. Yesterday, Samuel had threatened to throw the bishop over his horse’s withers and make him ride the rest of the way upside down if he complained one more time. Samuel almost hadn’t been joking.

  Fortunately, Kirby had been quieter today, huddled in his carriage with his hood up and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders against the rain and cold, so Samuel hadn’t gone through with his threat. Still, the delays had continued and it would be dark within the hour.

  Callum brushed desultorily at the muck from a carriage wheel that dirtied his cloak. He was pleased at how little he cared about the mud on his hands as he might have if he’d still been living in the modern world. In addition, the further he’d come from Kings Langley, the more surely the mantle of resolution he’d worn as a soldier had settled onto his shoulders. With each day that passed, it wrapped itself around him more tightly than his actual cloak. His ability to focus on the task at hand improved too, along with his mood, allowing him to look at the world with eyes that assessed threat and how to combat it. He’d known that he’d missed this feeling, but back in London or Cardiff, he hadn’t admitted how much, not even to himself.