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

by Sarah Woodbury

  “The Templars are supporting Balliol?” Matha attempted to cover up the way his face had drained of all color by taking a drink himself.

  “Of course not. We’re spies, like you.”

  “I thought Templars had to wear the cross at all times.” As a devotee of medieval history, Christopher had made it his business to know about the Templars long before he’d come to Earth Two.

  “We ... have learned some things since the king was almost killed in France.”

  “Haven’t we all.” Christopher ate a piece of meat. “Where is Henri right now?”

  “At the high table. He’s an emissary from the King of France. I’m his squire.” Thomas pulled a face. “It irks me to say so.”

  “I’m Matha’s squire for this, though I was knighted after Tara.” Christopher had tried to stop himself from adding the last half of the sentence, but it came out anyway.

  Thomas leaned in. “You were at Tara with the king?”

  Christopher and Matha both nodded.

  Thomas eased back again, casually looking around to make sure nobody was observing them. If someone was, they were far enough away that Christopher didn’t think they could overhear the conversation. “We arrived yesterday, a few hours after they took the castle, so we have gathered less information than we’d like. The king really is alive?”

  Christopher and Matha nodded again.

  Thomas continued to look pensive, as if he didn’t believe them. “Balliol has acknowledged that the king survived Ireland, but insists that another attempt on his life at Dinas Bran was successful.” He paused, both fear and hope in his voice. “Do you know about that one?”

  “The attempt was made at Chester, if we are talking about the same one, and we were there when it happened,” Christopher said. “The assassin injured William de Bohun, but David is well. The English army is marching here now.”

  Thomas let out a shuddering breath. “Praise the Lord.”

  Christopher felt momentary guilt at not mentioning Avalon to Thomas, but he didn’t feel like he should talk about what might not matter. David could have returned by now. And the army was coming.

  “The king will be going to Barnard, though, not Skipton.” Thomas’s worry face was back.

  “I sent riders south. They should know soon about the change of location, if they don’t already.”

  Thomas looked Christopher up and down. “The Hero of Westminster.” He shook his head. “You really do live up to the name.”

  Christopher scoffed. “You were as much a hero that day as I was. You and Henri.”

  “That reminds me.” Thomas turned his head with studied casualness to look towards the high table where Henri sat.

  Christopher had met both Henri and Thomas at Westminster in the aftermath of Gilbert de Clare’s death. With dark hair and eyes and olive skin, Henri looked Greek to Christopher, but apparently he was a younger son of a French lord, having joined the Templars because he would inherit no lands of his own.

  Henri gave no indication that he’d seen Thomas’s glance, but he leaned into the man next to him and said a few words, before standing and walking away from the high table. He didn’t look in Thomas’s direction, but once Henri had passed through the main doors of the hall, Thomas motioned with his head for Christopher and Matha to come with him.

  They left the hall, still hopefully with nobody remarking them, and found Henri in the outer courtyard, in the shadows of the northern curtain wall.

  “In the name of Saint Gerard, what are you doing here?” were his first words to Christopher.

  Thomas related what they’d told him, and Henri subsided. “It’s still dangerous for you to be here. Christopher, at least, is a known companion to King David, and just because you don’t recognize anyone doesn’t mean someone doesn’t recognize you.”

  “That’s what I said,” Thomas said smugly.

  “I felt it was worth the risk. We need to know what the plan is.”

  “It appears to be evolving.” Henri gestured towards the main gatehouse. “Let’s find a better place to talk.”

  They followed him, and he was of a high enough standing that the guard bowed to him fully as they left the castle.

  “Did King Philip actually send you?” Christopher hastened to come abreast so they could keep talking.

  “My master spoke with him. So much of what has transpired in the last month has caught everyone by surprise.” He turned his gaze on Christopher. “Your king most of all.”

  “He needs better spies, that’s for certain,” Christopher said.

  “Intrigue does not come naturally to him, and what worked for him in the early years of his reign is no longer sufficient.” Henri’s chin wrinkled as he thought. “Perhaps he would be willing to listen to some suggestions.”

  “After all this, I’m sure he would.” Christopher said.

  “Your French has improved since last we spoke.”

  Christopher laughed. “Given that it was nonexistent before, that bar is pretty low.”

  Henri laughed too, nice and casual, and they turned onto the main village street. Like the great hall, it was full of people, though most were of a lower class. Henri stopped at some tables set up in front of a house. The owner had created a makeshift tavern, in the same way that the stalls on the street were newly erected. Food vendors were doing a brisk business, as were the stalls selling boots, clothing, sewing supplies, and other household items. Because of the army’s arrival, a market had grown up in the town.

  “We can talk here.” Henri put up four fingers to the bartender, who came around his table with four crude clay cups, not even fired. They might have been made that day.

  “War is a boon for merchants as well as kings,” Henri said before taking his first drink.

  Christopher drank too, pleased to find he was drinking cider, not beer. And as he set down the cup, he noticed a small dragon carved into the side, the same dragon as on David’s crest. He traced it with one finger thoughtfully before being distracted by Henri, who commented, “I hate English beer. Cider is better.”

  Thomas clearly didn’t agree, since he was sipping his drink with a curled lip. “So, what’s David’s plan?”

  “I’m more interested in Balliol’s at the moment,” Christopher said, not quite ready to tell his new companions that David was in Avalon. “I get that they did all this thinking David would be dead. What I don’t see is how they think they can win with him alive.”

  Henri grunted. “They think they have good numbers with the addition of Hakkon’s army.”

  “They’ve come really far south.” Matha was drinking the cider with enthusiasm. He had never taken to English beer either, though Christopher thought his dislike was more a matter of principle. “Balliol has committed everything to this fight. What’s happening back in Scotland that made him think this was a good idea?”

  “Balliol would take the rule of England over Scotland,” Henri said. “He descends from King Henry I of England, and with the throne empty, he would have more right to it than most, including his allies in this war. Hakkon wants Scotland and thinks he deserves it for coming to fight.”

  “That’s what Balliol has promised him?” Christopher was shocked. “Which Scottish barons support that?”

  “Those who hate the Bruces. But remember, when all this started, Red Comyn was going to win Ireland, in part by the murder of not only David but also James Stewart and the Bruce heir. I understand that Robert Bruce survived an attempt on his life around the same time.”

  “Robert Bruce being Robbie’s grandfather?”

  Henri nodded. According to Bronwen’s shorthand, Robbie was Baby Bruce, his father had been Daddy Bruce, and his grandfather was Grampa Bruce. Christopher and Matha looked at each other. They’d not heard anything about that, and they were certain David did not know of it. Christopher drew in a breath. “The Stewarts, Bruces, and their allies are marching south even now, and I sent riders to them today too.”

  “I want to know
what the plan is now,” Matha said. “David is alive. Robert Bruce is alive, and five thousand men are on the verge of ravaging England.”

  “Balliol doesn’t yet know David is alive,” Henri said, “and I am not going to be the one to tell him.”

  “So do we let this happen?” They’d fought the battle at Tara because David had deemed it necessary. They’d won, but Christopher could do without more killing.

  “Do we have a choice?” Henri said. “Balliol isn’t going to back down, and King David can’t.”

  “If it comes to open battle, both sides are going to take huge losses,” Matha said matter-of-factly, “though David cannot help but win. Balliol doesn’t have archers.” After Tara, it was a huge sin, even to an Irishman.

  “We could kill Balliol,” Thomas said in a low voice.

  “A king does not kill a king,” Christopher said, also in an undertone, knowing David believed it.

  Henri pressed his lips together. “I honor that sensibility, but it is one that Balliol clearly does not share.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  3 April 1294

  Lili

  “Are you ready to admit this was a bad idea yet?” Ieuan caught the bridle of Lili’s horse, holding it steady in preparation for her mounting.

  The sun had finally risen after an endless night. When she had chosen to ride north with the cavalry, she’d known what it was going to feel like, but it had been a long time since she’d put herself through this kind of hardship two days in a row. That didn’t mean she wasn’t going to brazen it out to her brother though.

  “Was it?” She stopped in front of him. “I don’t think so. You saw how the men responded to my presence. If they can’t have Dafydd, then I will do. For now.”

  Her current circumstances reminded her in many ways of what had happened when she first admitted she loved Dafydd. She’d been chased out of her brother’s castle by soldiers, who had ridden right up to the front door and been admitted by the traitorous castellan. Those riders had belonged to Roger Mortimer too. The man had been quiet these last few years, but she was in no way surprised to find that he’d been merely biding his time.

  “At least you have Constance back.” Ieuan eyed Lili’s bodyguard, who was seeing to her own horse. Beside her, Constance’s husband, Cador, ate bread and cheese in preparation for the journey. Ieuan had almost not allowed him to come, since he was out of shape after two weeks of captivity. But Cador had insisted that his wife wasn’t riding into battle alone, and Ieuan had given way. It would have been hypocritical not to, seeing as how Ieuan wasn’t letting Lili go alone either.

  “Alexander has never spent a night without me before. But that night is over, so I can breathe more easily. It passed for him, one way or another. I’m telling myself that he slept snuggled up to Bronwen or Arthur and is completely happy. How much farther do we have to ride?”

  Callum was close by, and he answered instead of Ieuan. “Some twenty miles. We could do that by noon, except once we are within striking distance, we will want to go very carefully.”

  Lili nodded. She had come fifty miles from Chester to Bury yesterday and then twenty more overnight, so this last twenty was by comparison easier. It was going to be much more difficult on the foot soldiers they’d left behind. Math had determined to let them sleep last night, but once they started marching, he might ask them to walk all night tonight. For Lili’s journey, the horses had alternated between walking and cantering, which was much faster, in order to have rest periods for riders and horses. Lili had managed a few hours of sleep during those times.

  One of Humphrey de Bohun’s captains put up a fist. “Hold!” The word came out a harsh whisper, but in the morning air, his voice carried well.

  Everyone fell silent, listening hard. As Callum had just told them, they were twenty miles from Skipton. It was hard to believe that they faced any danger here, but Balliol could have moved again or be sending his own cavalry south, probing for resistance.

  After a moment, Lili heard what had caught the captain’s attention. She frowned. “Feet, not hooves, Ieuan.”

  Lili moved with her brother towards the opening in the stone wall bordering the field in which they’d rested during the two hours before dawn. It had dripped rain for an hour overnight, though fortunately not while they’d been sleeping, and not hard enough to slow their progress. The rain could even have been viewed as a blessing, since it meant their horses wouldn’t be leaving a pall of dust in the air behind them.

  Then four men came around a bend in the road, followed by four more, and more after that. They just kept coming, upwards of sixty at least, but Lili wasn’t worried anymore about who they were. The great bows on their backs told her they were Welsh. She stepped into the road.

  The man in the lead was muddy past his knees, but he had a grin on his face at the sight of her. “My lady.” He bowed. “It is an honor.”

  The man behind him laughed and bowed as well, and soon all the archers had come to a halt in the road, making merry with the cavalry, who mingled with them. Though the archers had clearly run many miles, they appeared no more tired or worse for wear than Lili’s companions.

  Their leader, Andras, was a man from Aber’s garrison.

  “What are you doing here?” Ieuan asked him.

  “The king sent us.” King, in this context, meant King Llywelyn, not King Dafydd. “He felt—and we felt—that Gwynedd needed to be represented. Dafydd is our prince, after all.”

  They were all Welsh here, and his familiarity with both Lili and Ieuan reflected the way they were like family.

  “How did you know where to go?” Humphrey said. “We didn’t realize Balliol was at Skipton until yesterday.”

  “We were overtaken by Sir Morgan and his men in the night. He pointed us in the right direction.” Andras shrugged. “He offered to share mounts, but we know our own strength. It isn’t so far now.”

  Lili laughed, and even Ieuan’s glower was less than sincere. “You can’t really plan on beating us to Skipton.”

  Andras raised his eyebrows. “We’ll let James Stewart know you’re coming.”

  “You do that.” Ieuan laughed as the archers set off again.

  Humphrey de Bohun was somewhat more disbelieving and said, channeling his son, “You have got to be kidding me!”

  Lili smiled at him. “They’ll do it, too, and arrive with the strength to shoot. You’ll see.”

  Humphrey growled under his breath. “I pray the Stewarts and the Bruces are as good as their word too.” He shook his head. “Those sixty archers may well make all the difference.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  3 April 1294

  James Stewart

  The late afternoon sunshine shone brightly down on the town of Skipton as James put his binoculars to his eyes again, having already surveyed the situation without them. The device had been a gift from Callum years ago, and was one of James’s most prized possessions. They’d certainly come in handy in Ireland.

  Robbie Bruce, who’d chosen to ride with James instead of staying with his grandfather to besiege Barnard Castle, peered south to where James pointed. “That’s the ground we want to claim.”

  James turned to look at his former squire. Now that Robbie was a knight, he could have been forging his unique path, but he’d chosen to stay beside James, at least for now. James had stood in for Robbie’s father since his death, and James was not too proud to say that he’d learned some things from Robbie too.

  “I agree. It would be madness to bear down on Skipton from directly south along the road.”

  “So we go?” Robbie said.

  “As soon as the sun sets. Two and a half miles in a straight shot.”

  Robbie looked relieved, which James could understand. It would feel better to be moving decisively instead of the painstaking crawl they’d kept to as they’d circled around Skipton.

  Huw’s arrival had not, in fact, caught James on the hop. He had known for the whole of the last week that Bal
liol had left Barnard. He’d sent his own messengers to David to tell him so, and he was more than a little disconcerted to learn they’d never reached him. He had to assume they were dead, possibly at Balliol’s hand.

  James’s respect for John Balliol had grown significantly since Trim. And because he had considerable respect for him, newfound as it was, James had to assume that he knew they were coming.

  Still, his forces had made no move in their direction, and over the last few days since Balliol had taken Skipton, James and his company of a hundred cavalry had been slowly working their way through the mountains to the north of the town, both aided and hindered by a covering mist that had dissipated today. Its absence was why they hadn’t yet crossed the river and taken the distant high ground, unimaginatively named Black Hill, a single mile to the southeast of the castle of Skipton.

  It was a mighty fortress, well-guarded on all sides and built on the English side of the Eller Beck, which is why Balliol had taken it. James was a little annoyed that he’d been clever enough to do so. Not to mention his foresight in bringing in the Norwegians.

  Meanwhile, the bulk of James’s army, composed primarily of pikemen and led by James’s brother-in-law, William Douglas, had camped on the high ground also above the town to the north. They were prepared to stop any retreat back to Scotland on the part of Balliol’s forces.

  The Bruces hadn’t been idle either. Furious at the attempt on his life, Robbie’s grandfather was determined to take Barnard Castle, since Balliol had exposed it by advancing south. The man was eighty if he was a day, but he’d insisted on riding out on what James had to think might be his last journey. He was supported by his two younger sons, Bernard and William, and their five hundred men, which was plenty to maintain a siege. James had left them to it.

  The rest of the army had been sent quick marching south into Yorkshire. A messenger had arrived an hour ago from James’s cousin Alexander, Earl of Menteith, that he was in position just this side of Bolton Abbey, ready to cut off Balliol’s retreat in that direction, or to advance and attack Skipton.