“But he isn’t dead. Hadn’t you gathered that yet? You should have waited a moment longer to make sure you achieved your goal before you fled.” Bevyn laughed. “King Dafydd went to Avalon. He’ll be back before you know it.”
Lili’s eyes glittered. “There’s nowhere you can run to now where he isn’t your liege lord: Ireland, Wales, and England are all his. And Scotland soon will be.”
“And, of course, a Clare can have no land on the continent either,” Rupert said in an aside, as if he didn’t know Thomas could hear him. “France will be no more willing to harbor him than any other lord, since King Philip of France will hardly hold one such as he in high esteem.” He looked hard at their prisoner. “Your brother saw to that.”
“I guess it’s Germany for you. Or maybe the Danes will take you in.” Bevyn laughed again. “Oh wait, what exactly do you have to barter with?”
“And that’s only if he gets out of here.” Lili had her arms folded across her chest and was studying Thomas’s face. “Which he won’t.”
Bevyn released Thomas and stepped back. Despite the easy mockery of his captors, Thomas wasn’t nearly as subdued as Bevyn thought he should be, and he was searching for something to say that would wipe that superior expression off the traitor’s face. “Now that he’s failed again, how well is that first conversation with Balliol going to go?”
Gratifyingly, Thomas appeared to gnash his teeth. “King David has proved to be everything we thought him. He will take all Britain for himself, just as she said.” He lifted his chin to point to Lili, and then returned his gaze to Bevyn. “How can you remain loyal, knowing what he is? Knowing what he will do?”
“Because I approve entirely of what he is. If he had the whole world at his beck and call, I could not be more content.” Bevyn had perhaps never stated his position as clearly as that, and he was disconcerted that Thomas had pulled the admission from him. It made him question who was interviewing whom. Still, upon reflection, Bevyn was unafraid to speak from the heart. He believed in Dafydd so completely it scared even him sometimes.
He was well into middle age, and he knew enough of men by now to understand that someone like Dafydd came along once in a hundred years, if not longer. King Llywelyn was a remarkable leader, as had been his grandfather, Llywelyn Fawr. But Dafydd was the result of a special kind of alchemy, where the universe—and God—had conspired to produce someone so suited to his time and place that it was impossible to imagine the world without him. While he’d been born in Avalon, in that country called America, he belonged to Britain. To place him anywhere else would be to completely misunderstand who he was.
Of course, Thomas sneered at Bevyn’s faith. Bevyn contemplated back-handing him across the face, which would be a mild reproof compared to what he would like to do to him. Thomas was an example of a man who’d formed a clear opinion, unreasonable as it was, that he could not be shaken out of, no matter the provocation. Thomas had never met Dafydd, so his prejudices were based on hearsay and others’ understandings.
And because of it, he could not be persuaded by anything Bevyn said or did. Thomas’s anger dated back to a time long before Dafydd’s crowning as King of England or the death of Thomas’s brother, beloved or not. His anger was rooted in his struggle for control of his lands in Thomond. Bevyn could understand how Thomas had come to the conclusions he had. He just wished they hadn’t resulted in yet another attempt on Dafydd’s life.
“Bevyn, may I have a moment with you?” Lili tugged lightly on the sleeve of his coat.
He followed Lili out of the tower and up the stairs to the rampart, as always the best place for a moment of privacy in a crowded castle. Dafydd had almost died on the wall-walk, but it nonetheless drew his wife.
When she reached the third merlon along the battlement, Lili turned to face him. “Thomas knows he has all the power and isn’t going to talk unless he wants to. He has the air of a man who has already decided that he has nothing left to lose except his life—and has convinced himself that he is willing to part with that too.”
Bevyn let out a sharp breath. “I know it. I’ve known it from the moment we realized who he was. Maybe we should give him what he wants and hang him. Whatever his plan, it’s dead now.”
But Lili shook her head. “I don’t think we’re ready for that step quite yet—nor do I think he really has lost everything. Revenge alone didn’t bring him here, else he wouldn’t have so carefully arranged his escape. If all he cared for was triumph, why escape at all? Why not stay and gloat over Dafydd’s corpse?”
Bevyn tapped a finger to his lips. “Because when it comes to it, few men are actually ready to die.”
Lili shook her head again. “When he shot that crossbow this morning, Thomas wanted to live and had hope for the future, even if a faint one. We need to know where that hope came from and what piece of a larger puzzle Dafydd’s assassination fits into.”
Bevyn pursed his lips. “That takes us back to Mortimer and Balliol. Thomas was doing it for them. If Dafydd had died, they could still have won.”
“But Thomas’s life was, by his lights, already over,” Lili said. “He’d already lost Ireland for good, and Dafydd had confiscated all of the Clare lands in Wales, England, and Aquitaine. What was Thomas hoping for?”
“He can’t think his wife has the resources to ransom him either,” Bevyn said. “Juliana FitzGerald has four small children, no husband, father, or brother, and is in no position to bargain.”
Lili canted her head. “On top of which, the head of the Fitzgerald clan is dead on the floor of Trim’s great hall—at the hand of Thomas’s co-conspirators.” Her tone was more than a little bitter, not surprising since her husband was supposed to have been numbered among the dead.
Bevyn snorted. “His Irish wife aside, he didn’t come here to regain what he lost there. He must know by now that the only reason Balliol and Mortimer included Irish barons in their plans was because they believed Dafydd was more vulnerable at Trim—with his self-imposed terms of engagement—than he ever would be in Wales or England. Roger Mortimer doesn’t care about Ireland at all, except as a means to power. Balliol might care slightly more, but again, only as an extension of his own influence. They must have promised Thomas something else.”
“Land in Britain somewhere, most likely,” Lili said. “But that is still only an incentive if Thomas escapes, and even a hot-headed fool like Thomas should have seen in advance that the chance of escape was slight. What does he gain if he’s dead or captured?”
“Oh, I see.” Bevyn frowned as he thought, finding nothing insightful coming to him.
Just then, her expression pensive, Bronwen came out of the keep and mounted the stairs to the wall-walk. “I hear we have Thomas de Clare in custody, and he isn’t talking.”
“He is not.” Bevyn related the gist of their conversation, and what he’d been discussing with Lili.
“I think you might be right that Thomas could have been operating under the assumption that he would be ransomed if caught,” Bronwen said, “just not by his wife.”
Bevyn grunted. “You mean Balliol would pay for him? He might negotiate for Red Comyn because he loves his sister, but I can’t see him caring that much for Thomas.”
Lili’s expression cleared as if a light had just dawned. “If Dafydd had been killed, we would have been desperate and grateful to have a man of Thomas’s standing to ransom for our own freedom.” She paused. “Could this plot be that intricate?”
“It’s already absurdly intricate and based upon assumptions that have clearly proved to be false.” Bronwen chewed on her lower lip. “Maybe Balliol promised to take care of Thomas’s children.”
“I suppose.” Bevyn was dubious. “But Thomas would have no way of knowing if Balliol followed through on his promise. On the other hand, I can believe that a desire to see his family again would be enough for him to do his best to escape, even if he had little hope of it.”
Lili gave a sardonic laugh. “How’s this for iron
ic? He may have believed that even were he caught, Dafydd would keep him alive because he is weak and loath to do what must be done.”
“Namely, hang him,” Bevyn said. “After all, Red Comyn molders in a cell in Dublin Castle.”
“If that’s the case,” Bronwen spoke slowly as she chose her words, “maybe he can still be persuaded that all is not lost. He has a young wife and four children whom he wants to see again. We are not desperate like he hoped, but he still has something we want.”
“We could use his family’s welfare as leverage,” Lili said, “but you didn’t see him in there. He is nothing if not defiant.”
“I am friends with Margaret, his sister,” Bronwen said.
“Who’s married to the Earl of Cornwall?” Bevyn started chewing on his lip too.
Edmund de Almain, the Earl of Cornwall, had been a powerful magnate under King Edward and, in addition to the Jews and the Italians, one of his principal moneylenders. Upon Edward’s death, Almain had been shut out of the regency by more conniving men like Humphrey de Bohun. On the whole, Bevyn assumed Almain had been caught on the hop by Edward’s death and the speed at which his rivals had moved to install themselves as regents, but he hadn’t balked at Dafydd’s ascension to the throne either.
To Bevyn’s mind, Almain was a prime example of a man, like John de Warenne, who’d found favor under Edward but had been slighted under Dafydd—not intentionally, but simply because Dafydd was a different man with his own favorites.
Upon Dafydd’s return to Wales two weeks ago, Almain had been among the first men Dafydd had contacted to acquaint him with his resurrection. Even now, he was supposed to be marching north with a host of men to join with Dafydd’s forces—now Callum’s—at Beeston Castle. Bevyn had met him and found him arrogant, not to say haughty. He insisted on being called Almain because his father had been one of the claimants to the kingship of Germany.
But if Margaret was Bronwen’s friend, Bevyn wasn’t going to argue. “Where is she?”
“At the holy well of Saint Gwenffrewi.” It was eighteen miles away.
Bevyn brow furrowed. “Almain has put her aside?” Loveless marriages were more the norm than not, and Margaret had not given her husband any children. In her forties now, ten years older than Bronwen, she was unlikely ever to do so, but if it was to happen, then the healing well was a place to start.
“She was raised in Wales like her brother. The Welsh are not so foreign to her. I think that was why she sought me out after David was crowned and Ieuan and I stayed at his side, to be a friend when I needed one—because she needed one too.”
Bevyn nodded. “I will send a rider for her at once.”
Bronwen made a sour face. “Meanwhile, I suggest we allow Thomas time to contemplate his sins.”
Chapter Eleven
1 April 2022
Livia
Two weeks ago, Livia had been minding her own business, keeping her head down, and trying to stay off the radar of anyone in authority. She’d been roundly set down at her previous position within Five and had been determined not to do anything that would make waves or cause her actions to be called into question again and jeopardize her career.
Perhaps it was absurd to care so much about her job. When an actor in a television programme speculated out loud about how some action—one that was the right action—might result in losing her job, Livia generally scoffed. Someone with her skills could find a new job. But there was only one MI-5, and Livia would like to keep working for her country as long as it would have her.
And yet, she just couldn’t seem to help getting herself into trouble. She was a curious person, and when her mind started ticking over a problem, she couldn’t let it go until it was solved. It had been what had made her so successful throughout her schooling. Unfortunately, that curiosity fit less well in a system where orders were given and expected to be obeyed. She’d never been very good at taking orders she didn’t believe in.
Which was why, leading up to her discovery of what Mark was up to, she’d read every file and gone through every piece of equipment in her refuse pile of an office, and why she’d gone to see Mark to tell him that she knew about the Time Travel Initiative. Even as she’d been heading for the elevator that would take her upstairs to his office, she’d told herself to leave it be. But she’d pressed the button that said ‘up’ anyway, and now she was paying the price for her persistence.
God help her, she still wasn’t sorry—though she might reach that point if she actually ended up in prison.
“Director-General Philips will see you now.” The D-G’s secretary motioned towards the door behind her.
Livia smoothed her skirt and walked sedately to the door, which opened a moment before she arrived, held by her boss—Mark’s boss too—Jack Stine. “Come in, Ms. Cross.”
Absurdly, even in this day and age, she was one of only three women in the room, and the only woman under forty. Twenty heads turned towards her as she moved to one of the two empty chairs around the large table. Before she could sit, however, Amanda Crichton, the head of internal affairs, motioned that she should move to an empty spot a few seats down. The seat she’d been about to take was Jack Stine’s.
Nobody introduced her, and Livia wondered if they thought she was a secretary. Or maybe they just didn’t care who she was. She had never attended such a high-level meeting before and was unfamiliar with the protocols. She assumed, however, that whatever the reason she’d been asked to attend, until she was spoken to, she should be seen but not heard.
Projecting a confidence that was the last thing she was feeling, Livia pulled out the chair and sank three inches into its plush softness. They really did things right on the top floor of Thames House. Because of her lowly status, her back was to the bank of windows, but the view of the River Thames, from what she’d seen briefly as she’d entered the room, was lovely.
“You have all seen this by now, of course, but as it’s why we’re here, we’ll watch it again.” The D-G was running the meeting himself, which revealed its importance like nothing else could have done. He tapped the screen on the tablet before him, and the wall-sized monitor to Livia’s left sprang to life, playing a cleaned-up version of what Livia herself had been watching compulsively for the last half-hour before she’d been summoned to the meeting.
One moment they were looking at the somewhat inept stance of an archer dressed in faux-medieval clothing, and the next second his arrow had missed the target at which he was ostensibly aiming. The camera tried to follow the arrow and thus caught perfectly the flash that whited out the camera, followed by the arrival of two men, also in medieval dress, one holding the other. They all knew by now that the taller man was David himself, King of England in his alternate universe.
“This is all over the internet, no doubt.” The tall, spare, gray-haired director of internal security, Grant Dempsey, spun slowly back in forth in his chair as he spoke. He behaved always as if he’d seen it all before, whatever it was. Livia found herself both irritated and amused that he continued to affect that attitude even though he’d never seen this before.
“It is,” the D-G said.
“I don’t suppose we can get away with it being an April Fool’s Day prank?” Dempsey asked John Roswell, head of media relations.
“Maybe at one time, but with everything else that’s out there, and the events of two weeks ago? Unlikely.”
“Do we know the identity of the injured man?” Amanda Crichton asked.
“He’s known as William,” John said. “No further report yet as to his last name.”
“He might not have one, if he’s medieval,” Livia said, the words leaving her mouth before she could stop them.
Everyone looked at her, and Jack Stine gave a tsk. “This is Livia Cross. Two weeks ago, she drove Mark Jones, also known as Gabe Evans, our former head of satellite software development, to connect with the sister of David, the uninjured man you see there. The brief before each of you has their bios.”
Nobody looked at their folders, and Livia, who hadn’t yet opened the folder in front of her, presumed they’d been pored over before she arrived. She opened it now. It contained perhaps a half-dozen pieces of paper—far fewer than what the Time Travel Initiative had accumulated, which she knew because she’d read all those files herself. They were still in her office, each folder secreted among other files. Someone would have to go through each filing cabinet file by file to find them.
Even Chad Treadman had more information than this. She’d tried to stay out of the investigation that followed the disappearance of the plane, and she realized now how little her bosses really knew. She couldn’t decide, now that it came to it, if that was good or bad.
“At the time, Livia was cleared of all involvement in Jones’s activities,” Amanda said. “Are we to understand differently now?”
“Nothing has changed,” Jack said. “She’s here because Jones trusted her enough to ask her to drive him, and she had contact with him up until the plane disappeared.”
There was a little stir around the room at the revelation, which most appeared not to know. In the aftermath of Mark’s disappearance, Livia had decided to confess it, thinking that bit of information could do neither of them harm and telling the truth in this instance might distract her questioners from all the truths she was hiding.
She looked up from the folder. “I had nothing to do with anything Mark did or knew prior to the day Anna arrived. He asked me to drive him to the hospital, and I did. I’ve learned a great deal more since that morning.”
“Haven’t we all,” Amanda said dryly. “What can you tell us?”
Livia gestured towards the screen. “I don’t know anything about why David is here now. He certainly hasn’t contacted me, not that he would have any way of doing so.”
Champions of Time (The After Cilmeri Series, #13) Page 8