Champions of Time (The After Cilmeri Series, #13)

by Sarah Woodbury

  The sun had set two hours ago, but men were continuing to trickle into camp. Hundreds more had joined the army as it marched across England. They would need to get settled quickly and on their way to resting, because they would be asked to move again at dawn.

  The barons had dined, and now were meeting about their plan of action for the coming days, most of which didn’t require a great deal of discussion, since it primarily involved a slogging march north towards Barnard Castle. The victory at Beeston had been gratifyingly quick. Without Sophie and the rocket launcher, they would still be camped around the fortress, trying to figure out a way to get in.

  As they’d arrived in Bury, storm clouds had threatened, and Ieuan had been called from the tent by what he thought was thunder. He saw now that what had drawn him was the sound of thundering hooves.

  A company of thirty riders stopped at the far pickets and then were waved through quickly, which meant they were known to the guards and possibly had an urgent message. Ieuan braced himself for bad news.

  But then, as they trotted down the pathway towards the main tent, a groundswell of cheering began among the soldiers on either side. Hats were being thrown into the air, and the noise became a roar.

  Ieuan had a flash of hope that it was David, coming to lead them.

  It wasn’t. Lili, not David, dismounted in front of the pavilion. She had her bow and quiver strapped to her back, and she was wearing that newfangled dress she and Sophie had invented. Ieuan liked the style, actually. It was both feminine and eminently practical, just like Lili herself.

  That admiration didn’t stop him from cursing under his breath, however, even as he stepped forward to greet her with a smile plastered on his face. He wasn’t going to undermine the men’s joy by baring his own disapproval. They had to think she was expected and that their leaders were united.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Lili wrapped her arms around his neck. “I had to come.”

  He embraced her, careful to avoid being whacked on the forehead by her bow. “What about Alexander?”

  “He’s loves his auntie Bronwen. Don’t be angry, brother.”

  And all of a sudden, he wasn’t. He had been the one who taught her to shoot, after all. He could hardly blame her for wanting to fight when she and everyone else knew she was perfectly capable of it. It wasn’t as if she was asking to be put on the front lines with a sword.

  And besides, the men loved her. David inspired hatred or jealousy at times (obviously), but Lili was beloved. And fast becoming a legend in her own right.

  Now, releasing Ieuan, she turned and waved to the hundreds of soldiers before her, all of whom continued cheering, though those at the front of the lines bowed respectfully.

  Then she grabbed Ieuan’s arm and pulled him towards the entrance of the pavilion. “I didn’t come for this. We have some bad news.”

  “I would expect nothing less.”

  The men in the tent had noticed the uproar outside, and several had left their seats and started towards the entrance, to be halted by Lili and Ieuan’s sudden appearance through the tent flap.

  “My lady!” Humphrey de Bohun was the first to gasp, and he went down on one knee an instant later.

  Several of the barons in the tent were from the north and would not know Lili to look at, but everyone bowed anyway. Ieuan had never been to this region of England, but within a half-hour of the army’s arrival, various nearby lords had come to do them homage. Math had very generously granted Roger Pilkington, the pre-eminent baron of this region of Lancashire, the dubious honor of putting up the army on his land for the night.

  Lili, typically, smiled and motioned that the men facing her rise. “Up, up. We have work to do.” She strode towards the table, which had been cleared of dishes and upon which several maps lay spread.

  Mark had been standing at the table too, but with a tablet in his hand. “What information can I get you?”

  “Everything you know about Hakkon of Norway.”

  From behind Lili, Callum choked. “What?”

  “He’s Erik of Norway’s younger brother,” Lili said. “And he’s here.”

  “I know who he is, my queen.” Callum got control of his surprise. “He’s a hotheaded fool. You’re sure it isn’t Erik himself who’s come?

  “Not according to Thomas de Clare.” Lili turned to look at Callum. “Thomas is the man who tried to assassinate Dafydd.”

  That was a torrent of information in a few short sentences. Ieuan moved to stand beside his sister. “What exactly are you telling us?”

  “Hakkon of Norway has come with an army of his own to support Balliol.”

  “How many men does he have?” Edmund Mortimer asked.

  “I don’t know. Thomas wasn’t privy to that information.”

  “How did you get this information out of him?” Callum said.

  “It was your wife, Margaret.” Lili turned to look at Almain, the Earl of Cornwall. Tall and lean, with dark hair and a closely-trimmed beard, Almain was the same age as both Humphrey de Bohun and Edmund Mortimer, in his mid-forties.

  In reply, Almain pressed his lips together in a partial, self-satisfied smile. He and Margaret were estranged, which didn’t endear Ieuan to the man, and he was pompous and arrogant, but Ieuan also knew from Meg that Almain would be dead of cancer before the turn of the century and would leave no heirs. That, combined with the fact that he’d marched an army of a thousand men north from London, made it easy for Ieuan not to be judgmental.

  “How many miles to Barnard Castle from here?” Lili asked.

  Pilkington, the man with the local knowledge, answered. “Ninety, my lady, give or take, and that’s marching through the mountains. It would be a hundred and ten to go around them.”

  Math looked at Callum. “That’s four days minimum, and that’s if it doesn’t rain.” So far, it hadn’t, but this was April in England. Could they really be so lucky?

  “Does anybody know how far away the Bruces are?” Callum said to the general audience.

  Nobody answered in the affirmative. Pilkington cleared his throat. “We haven’t heard from them, my lord. We would have said if we had.”

  “Excuse me, my lords and lady, but we can leave now. We’re rested.” Morgan, the captain of David’s archers, spoke earnestly in Welsh.

  He led two hundred men, all of whom were seasoned warriors, understood guerrilla warfare, and were mounted on smaller, quicker horses that could make good time. The Bruce army only had sixty miles to march from Carlisle to Barnard, and a messenger from James Stewart had arrived a week ago to say that they were leaving Carlisle. Unfortunately, there had been no news since, and none of the messengers David had sent north from Chester had returned.

  “The rest of our cavalry can get some way down the road too,” Callum said.

  “I brought thirty more,” Lili said. “We’ve ridden long today, just as you have, but we could start again by midnight.”

  Ieuan’s jaw was tight, but he nodded. “Knowing those archers, they’ll get there first.”

  “What about communication—these walkie-talkies I’ve heard so much about from Nicholas de Carew,” Almain said.

  Ieuan tried not to smile at hearing walkie-talkie come out of Almain’s well-bred mouth. “We have enough to send one with the archers, another with our heavy cavalry, and keep a third with the main army. Once we begin moving, we will all be out of range of each other very quickly, but if we’re anywhere close, we’ll be able to find each other once we’re within striking distance of Barnard.”

  Math and Callum exchanged a glance. Each, in his own way, was the leader of this army. Callum wouldn’t want to take over if Math had a different opinion. He canted his head in approval, however, so Callum gave a sharp nod. “If nothing else, we have enough men to pen Balliol in the north until we determine how exactly to defeat him.”

  Ieuan was pessimistic enough to think that they’d ultimately be forced into a long slog through Scotland, like King Edward
and his ilk had done in Avalon’s history, but he didn’t mention it. They had to deal with what was in front of them first, which was more than enough to be going on with.

  Throughout the meeting, Humphrey de Bohun had been uncharacteristically silent, but as the barons dispersed, he approached Ieuan. “I’m riding with you and Queen Lili, because, of course, you both are going tonight.”

  “We are,” Ieuan said, though he hadn’t discussed it yet with Lili. She hadn’t come all this way to march along with the spearmen, and they both knew it. “What about Edmund?”

  “He’s coming too, as you must have guessed. He and I have a hundred riders between us. We’ll be four hundred strong, without the archers. We wouldn’t want to ride with more anyway, nor leave the army without any cavalry at all, in case Balliol’s army is doing something different from what we’ve been told.”

  Callum had spent a few moments conferring with some of the Lancashire barons outside the tent, but he now he returned, throwing back his hood as he reentered the pavilion. He was followed by two other men, their clothes mud-spattered from a long journey. Their eyes were alight, however, and Ieuan knew them. These were two of the riders whom Callum had sent with Christopher.

  His heart fluttered that something could have happened to the boy again, but before he could ask, Callum said, “Balliol and Hakkon aren’t at Barnard after all. They’ve marched to Skipton Castle, from which these men rode today, sent by Christopher, who remains there.”

  To have had two different sets of riders arrive in their camp within an hour of each other was something of a miracle, especially considering the distances and difficulty in discovering exactly where the army had ended up. And while he welcomed the news, he grimaced to think that Balliol could have come so far without any of them hearing of it.

  Lili had her own perspective. “Thank goodness for that! Skipton is miles closer than Barnard.”

  “It means the Scots have reached farther into England,” Callum said, echoing Ieuan’s thoughts. “That they’ve put the Pennines behind them means they have the whole of England before them. From Skipton, they can move in any direction. That said, it also means that any supply line from Scotland is stretched very thin.”

  Math folded his arms across his chest. “If they’ve come so far south, it means they’re confident in their plan. I’m sure they’re already probing for us, looking to engage us on ground of their choosing.”

  “Can they really not know the Bruces are behind them?” Ieuan asked.

  “Maybe they’re hoping to engage us before we can link up with them,” Callum said. “Or Balliol is still assuming David is dead, and he will face less coherent opposition. That’s why they’ve moved now. Maybe he intends to march on London. We’ve been a step behind him for weeks, and perhaps he thinks we still are.”

  “He wouldn’t necessarily be wrong,” Ieuan said, though under his breath so only Lili heard him.

  One of the riders, the one named Jacob, put up a hand. “Christopher sent Huw and Cedric riding north, hoping to divert James Stewart towards Skipton.”

  Lili bit her lip. “It’s a longer journey for them now.”

  Pilkington was still present, and he filled in the geography again. “Skirting the Pennines to the west, they have ninety miles to travel from Carlisle to Skipton.” He canted his head. “But that makes fewer than forty miles for us.”

  “Do you know, between Balliol and Hakkon, how many men we’ll be facing?” Math asked the riders.

  “Five thousand at least,” John said.

  “We can match that with the men here,” Lili said, drawing herself up to her not very tall height but every inch the queen. “With or without Dafydd, Balliol’s army cannot be allowed to penetrate another mile into England.”

  Chapter Thirty

  2 April 1294

  Christopher

  Christopher ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. It was shorter than when he’d arrived in Earth Two nine months ago, since washing it was out of the question a lot of days. Better to keep it only an inch long because then nobody would notice if it was dirty. Short hair meant he had no floppy bangs to hide behind, however, and he didn’t know that he’d ever been so nervous in his life.

  He and Matha were risking their lives right here, right now. It was making Christopher’s mouth dry and his hands sweaty. He felt that in Ireland, when he’d been captured and made to stand before Aine’s father, he’d been almost too innocent to be nervous. Even when they’d taken Roscommon Castle from the inside, the hours of waiting had pretty much drained most of the anxiety out of him by the time they were actually able to leave their hiding place.

  Since Ireland, he had a much better understanding of the badness that was possible.

  But then again, maybe those experiences also made him realize that, whatever happened, he could survive it.

  They approached the castle gate, and Matha stepped in front of Christopher to speak to the guard. Meanwhile, Christopher attempted to look bored, while praying that nobody at this castle had ever seen him in person.

  “John Bulmer told us that we should come here tonight. I am Sir Matha of Breifne, and this is my squire.” Matha didn’t name Christopher, which they’d agreed might be more normal than not. Squires were unimportant in the social hierarchy, unless they were sons of famous men. Even then, they should be seen and not heard. Christopher could definitely see the benefit of keeping his mouth closed at all times.

  The guard bent his head in a quick bow and waved them through, which Christopher was almost sorry about because it meant they were committed. Skipton Castle was pretty big as castles went, with a massive gatehouse that faced the town and a bailey the size of a football field. It also had a large central keep with five towers of its own. The keep itself was unevenly pentagonal, with a long side that abutted the curtain wall built on a cliff above the river below it. It was the same river that flowed past the house where Matha and Christopher were staying.

  The setup looked a lot like Chepstow Castle, in fact, with the river cutting a deep channel behind the castle perched above it. Skipton was located here for a similar reason as Chepstow too, except in this case, the Eller Beck was meant to act as a barrier against marauding Scots rather than the Welsh. Unfortunately, it had done no good against Balliol, the King of Scots. Christopher had noticed as they’d left the mayor’s house that the town’s drawbridge remained raised. Nobody was getting across the Eller Beck without getting wet.

  “Balliol had to have had someone on the inside,” Christopher said to Matha in an undertone as they crossed the inner courtyard and entered the keep.

  “Shush. We are not talking about this right now.”

  Christopher subsided, but he was still outraged on David’s behalf. It was crazy the number of people who thought betraying the king was a good idea. Then again, they’d probably done it because Balliol had assured them David would be dead.

  Whoops.

  He and Matha followed their noses towards the great hall, which was up a flight of stairs from the keep’s inner courtyard. The door was open, but nobody was really guarding it. They had plenty of guards throughout the rest of the castle, and with all the comings and goings, stopping people coming in and out of the hall would have stalled traffic too much. As it was, the great hall was packed with men, and Christopher followed Matha as they edged sideways to the right around the inner wall. They had entered the castle near the tail end of the meal, in hopes that it would make blending in easier. With the battles ahead still unfought, Balliol wouldn’t allow drunkenness, but watery beer would be flowing.

  Matha tipped his head towards the end of one of the tables, where two men had just risen to their feet. Christopher and Matha hastily sat themselves down. Matha had his back to the wall, which gave him a better view of the room. Christopher had to turn in his seat to take in his surroundings.

  A frazzled servant plopped two cups and a trencher in front of them. He waved a hand to indicate that they should help t
hemselves to the platters that were already on the table. A couple more seats next to theirs cleared out, and Christopher stood to fill his trencher with meat and bread.

  Only high-ranking men were allowed to eat in the hall, but with five thousand soldiers in the fields, that was still a few hundred knights, squires, and higher-status men-at-arms. The food would be doled out in quantity, but it would need to be kept simple. He speared a few potatoes too, laughing mockingly to himself that Balliol might not like the changes David had brought to Britain, but he wasn’t above taking advantage of the more stable food supply potatoes gave him.

  Christopher sat back down and put the trencher between him and Matha.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The words came from behind Christopher, whispered urgently in his ear, and then Thomas Hartley stepped one foot over the bench and sat beside Christopher, facing him. His bright blue eyes glared.

  Christopher had already taken a bite of bread, which he proceeded to almost choke on. Matha slowly lowered the cup back to the table, awareness in every line of his body.

  Thomas eased back slightly and took a nonchalant drink from the cup he’d brought. “At least you sat in the back of the room. I think I’m the only one who has recognized you so far. You can’t be here!”

  “Why not? What about you? We figured nobody would recognize me out of context and this far from London.” Christopher had swallowed his bread and recovered enough to defend himself.

  Thomas looked daggers at Matha. “And you are?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  Christopher tsked through his teeth. “Matha, Thomas. Thomas, Matha. Both of you are companions to King David. There. Is that good enough?”

  The two men reached out and grasped forearms. “A pleasure,” Matha said.

  “Likewise,” Thomas said. “I’m here with Henri.”

  Deciding a more detailed explanation now would save time later, Christopher leaned across the table and gave Matha a hurried summary of how he knew Henri and Thomas and what they’d done for David. He then told Thomas how he knew Matha.