Guardians of Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  David didn’t blink at Callum’s use of the honorific, just ducked his head. “I know. I’m not asking anything more than what Mark can find in his spare time—which I grant he may not have. But Lee is here, somewhere.”

  “Because of the flash, there will be a record of his return—and your subsequent and immediate departure,” Callum said. “We can find out where he started out, if not where he is now.”

  “I need a better computer and connection to do any of that,” Mark said, “and our colleagues to be asleep at the wheel.”

  “Burner phones are our first priority, after a new vehicle,” Cassie said.

  “There’s another Tesco on the outskirts of Bangor,” Mark said, “and I’m working on a car hire right now.” He looked up at Callum. “Same ID as before, you think?”

  “Why not?” Callum said. “We weren’t tracked on our way through California. It was getting on a plane supplied by MI-5 that got us into trouble.”

  “Just as long as the accounts are paid and current.” Mark stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he concentrated.

  “That should be automatic,” Callum said.

  “And … it is!” Mark said as he pressed a key on his laptop with a flourish. “We have a rental van at a garage a few hundred yards from the aforementioned Tesco.”

  Cassie accelerated towards the major road that would take them east from the clinic.

  As they rumbled through the snow-covered landscape, David couldn’t help thinking that where he really wanted to be right now was either pacing the hallway of Abraham’s clinic with Math and Dad or at Dinas Bran with his wife and son. He was almost jealous of Bridget and Peter for getting off the bus. Hopefully they were having a cozy time of it right about now.

  Chapter Nine

  Peter

  As it turned out, Peter was not having a cozy time of it—with Bridget or anyone else.

  He’d returned Bridget’s kiss and held her hand, and all was right with the world—except that instead of sharing a carafe of wine with her before a warm fire up at the castle, he was crouched over the body of the French emissary and his escorts. The temperature hovered just above freezing, and it was raining at the same time, which was pretty much what one expected in England in winter but still wasn’t Peter’s cup of tea.

  “What are you thinking?” Bridget stood to his left, bent over with her hands on her knees.

  Peter didn’t answer right away; he was distracted by both the body and what was going on with him and Bridget. It left no time for conversation. He knew that he should have been the one to say something to Bridget first, but he wasn’t sorry she’d taken matters into her own hands. It was a relief to have their relationship clarified.

  The emissary lay within the shelter of the ruined carriage, which was half-tipped onto one side. At first Peter had thought the carriage had crushed the man, but none of his limbs were directly underneath it.

  In deference to the weather, Molier wore a thick wool cloak over his finer wool garments, which included shirt, pants, undertunic, overtunic and knee-high boots. All in extra-large.

  To tell the truth, the emissary was one of the fatter medieval people Peter had encountered, the very definition of what a rich burgher might look like, though he was a politician instead.

  As Peter patted at the man’s torso, shifting him slightly, his hands came away bloody. More blood stained Molier’s clothes and the ground underneath him, but as Peter moved around the body, he couldn’t find any wound beyond a swelling to the back of the man’s head.

  “Hard to believe bandits could be operating this close to Dinas Bran—on Christmas Eve no less—without being detected sooner,” Bridget said, “and even harder to believe that they would just happen upon, as their first target, a caravan including the emissary from France and the High Steward of Scotland.”

  Peter realized at that point that he still hadn’t answered Bridget’s first question and, in fact, had forgotten she’d asked it.

  “Don’t forget Geoffrey,” Peter said hurriedly, having decided that he didn’t want her to give up on talking to him entirely, so he’d better contribute to the conversation.

  Bridget nodded. “He’s a powerful man in his own right and has David’s ear.”

  “If this was a simple robbery, everyone could have been subdued with the promise of free passage once they’d given up their jewels and gold.” Peter glanced over at Bridget. Her green eyes were alight with interest, and she was showing no signs that she minded standing over a dead body with him in the pouring rain. “This was meant to look like a highway robbery gone wrong.”

  “Theft doesn’t always mean hanging in David’s England. Murder does,” Bridget said. “They have to know they’re for the gallows if they’re caught.”

  “Which is why I find it hard to believe they’d go so far as to kill for gold they can’t spend,” Peter said. “Maybe during one of England’s civil wars they could have found refuge in the land of an opposing faction, but England is at peace, and Wales is no haven for robbers.”

  “So what can these men possibly be thinking?” Bridget said. “David isn’t going to be happy to learn that his roads aren’t safe, and even worse, to have to inform the French king that his emissary is dead on English soil. That, along with the abduction of James Stewart, means they’ve caused an international incident.”

  “Fortunately, we have at least a day until David finds out about it, and we’ll do what we can before he gets back to discover who did this and why. And get Lord Stewart back.” Peter knelt in the mud of the road by Molier’s head, his hands on his shoulders. “Can you help me shift him?”

  “He’s really heavy.” Bridget grasped Molier around the torso, struggling to help Peter turn the emissary onto his back. Then she frowned. “Look at this!” She lifted up several layers of the man’s clothing to reveal a thin mail vest hidden underneath his linen shirt, adding many pounds to his already significant girth.

  In so doing, Bridget also found the wound that was the source of all the blood: the emissary had been stabbed by a thin blade that had cut through the links of his mail along the base of his left rib cage, thus confirming Peter’s opinion that the emissary had been the target of the attack. But between the mail, the many layers of fabric, and Molier’s girth, the knife had missed his heart. It had gone in but had turned aside at the ribs. Still, Molier had bled copiously.

  Then Peter frowned. The blood on his hands was fresh, and the wound was still seeping. That made no sense at all. Dead men didn’t bleed.

  “You said, we,” Bridget said. “You said we have at least a day.”

  “What?” He glanced up at her, confused for a moment about the topic of conversation. Then he shook himself. “I meant we. Like I said before, I assumed any attempt on my part to get you to return to your shop would be wasted, so I thought I’d save my breath.”

  Without waiting for an answer from Bridget, he returned his attention to the emissary’s body and almost fell backwards in surprise as the man expelled a puff of air. Peter pressed with two fingers into the man’s thick neck. He thought he caught a pulse but was afraid it was the beat from his own forefinger, so he placed his ear to the man’s chest. The heartbeat came faint but steady, and Molier’s chest rose and fell a few millimeters as he breathed.

  Peter sat back on his heels. “He’s alive.”

  Bridget didn’t waste words in shock or surprise, which was one of the things Peter liked about her. Instead, she straightened and waved her arms to get the attention of Hywel, who’d been waiting for them when they’d arrived, and Justin, David’s captain, who’d ridden with them to the ambush site to provide support. Rather than feeling resentful not being included on David’s trip to Avalon, Justin seemed to be putting an extra strut in his walk at the trust his king had placed in him and David’s wisdom in leaving him behind.

  “How could someone—us included—not have noticed that he was alive earlier?” Bridget said.

  “Nobody was able
to feel his pulse on account of all the fat,” Peter said.

  Hywel and Justin hurried over. “What is it?” Hywel said.

  “This man’s alive,” Peter said. “We need a stretcher.”

  While Hywel hared off to arrange for the emissary’s transport, Justin stared at the body. “That’s good news.” He paused. “Isn’t it?”

  “I’d say so,” Peter said. “I highly doubt King David would have preferred him dead.”

  “Now we just have to keep him alive,” Bridget said.

  Hywel gave a piercing whistle to gather his men, who’d been posted on the perimeter of the ambush site, and two men-at-arms stripped a side board off the carriage. The board only had to carry the emissary to one of the carts, which they’d brought for the purpose of transporting the dead to the village of Llangollen.

  “You’d better bring one of the carts closer,” Bridget said to Hywel. “We’re going to need more than two men to lift him into the bed, and they aren’t going to want to have to carry him more than a few steps.”

  “I hope the horse has the strength to pull him,” Justin said, a dubious expression on his face.

  “What about the dead?” Hywel said.

  “The dead can wait,” Peter said. “Take the emissary to the village and then return for the rest.” Molier wouldn’t have to be driven all the way up to the castle. He could stay at the hospital Math had built in Llangollen, which meant he’d reach help all the more quickly.

  Bridget felt at the back of the emissary’s head. “You know, I don’t think he’s really that injured. He might be unconscious more from being hit on the head than from the loss of blood.”

  “The healers will straighten him out,” Hywel said, with all the confidence of a man whose home was the medical center of the known world.

  “The cold air may have saved his life,” Peter said to Bridget. “It slowed the bleeding, and then his extra layers of fat and clothing protected him from freezing to death.”

  He and Bridget stepped back to allow Hywel and his men to load Molier into the cart. As it turned out, it took five men to lift him. Once mounted, Justin hesitated, his horse’s bridle in his hand. “Sir—”

  Peter made a dismissive motion with his hand. “You and your men should provide an escort just to make sure Molier gets there in one piece. Even now, someone could be watching, waiting for a chance to finish the job.”

  “Someone should stay behind with you,” Justin said. “You need an escort too.”

  Peter frowned, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation that would appeal to Justin’s medieval mind for why everyone should leave him and Bridget alone. The truth was, Peter didn’t want Justin looking over his shoulder, and he’d meant what he’d said to Bridget: he wanted a partner, like Darren would have been, not just a companion to ride beside him—to protect him or whatever Justin thought he needed.

  Justin was a very capable commander—even a knowledgeable tactician—but he wasn’t an investigator. Bridget didn’t have the experience in war that Justin had, but she was smart, more creative than Peter himself by far, and he wouldn’t have to translate modern concepts for her. He’d always known how soothing he found it to be around her but hadn’t appreciated it fully until all of the other twenty-firsters had gone away.

  “What if the king returns, and you’re not there?” Peter said. “He would not thank you for leaving Lili unattended, even if she is safe at Dinas Bran.”

  Justin ground his teeth, clearly torn between duty and duty. After a moment of thought, he said, “I’ll leave you Simon, one of my men-at-arms. He speaks English and has a quick mind. Given King David’s disagreements with the King of France, I doubt the bandits are Welsh, and you won’t be heading into Wales.”

  “That’ll work,” Peter said. “Thanks.”

  The rest of Justin’s company mounted and began making their slow way back up the road to Llangollen. It had been nearly four o’clock in the afternoon when the bus had left, and darkness had been coming on. It was full dark now, and their only light was the torch Simon held in his hand.

  Thankfully, it wasn’t raining as hard as it had been, and a swift breeze was blowing down from the north. The air was colder, which might even mean snow if the clouds didn’t disperse before morning.

  Peter walked to his saddlebag, pulled out a water skin, and handed it to Bridget.

  She drank and passed it back. “What more are you hoping to accomplish tonight?”

  “Somewhere, out there, James Stewart is alone and without friends.” Peter gestured with the water skin to Simon, including him in the discussion. “I don’t think any of us should be sleeping until we find him.”

  Bridget gazed around at the darkened landscape, her brow furrowed. “You know, it’s odd that the bandits attacked during the day.”

  Simon took a drink from his own flask, which Peter was fairly certain wasn’t full of water, and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t know about that, ma’am. It was either attack in the light or not at all.”

  “Why do you say that?” Bridget said.

  Simon shrugged. “They attacked the carriage only five miles from Dinas Bran, which was Molier’s destination. If the bandits had waited any longer, they would have had to enter Wales, territory they might know less well, and the ambush site would have been even closer to the castle. They would have increased their risk of being seen.”

  Peter could see what Justin meant about Simon having a good head on his shoulders.

  Bridget tipped her head to one side as she thought about what Simon had said. “If your intent is banditry, you wait until dark and attack whoever happens by. If your intent is to kill the emissary and/or capture the High Steward of Scotland, as it seems was the case, then you have to attack at the moment available, regardless of the hour of day.”

  “So,” Peter took another sip of water. “Who gains from the emissary’s death?”

  “It’s equally likely that Stewart was the target, isn’t it?” Simon said.

  “And what about Geoffrey?” Bridget said.

  “Geoffrey didn’t suffer a knife wound to the chest,” Simon said. “He was collateral damage. The bandits might not even have known he was Molier’s traveling companion until they saw him in the party. The same could be said for Stewart.”

  Bridget bit her lip.

  “What is it?” Peter said.

  Bridget took in a breath. “I’m just thinking about bits of news that have come into Shrewsbury in recent weeks. I’m wondering now if they aren’t more credible than we initially thought.”

  Peter frowned. “What bits of news? You never said anything to me.”

  “You haven’t been around much, have you?” Bridget said, and then gave him a smile, which he hoped meant she didn’t mean anything by the jab. “You were collecting the bus passengers and escorting them to Dinas Bran, and the information was delicate enough that I decided I had to speak directly to Callum.”

  Peter glowered at her. “Don’t make us wait, Bridget.”

  “I hate even to say anything, but we’ve heard some chatter—” she put out a hand, “—not with any hint of an attack like this, but—”

  “I’m sorry,” Simon said. “May I ask what you mean by chatter?”

  “Think of it as gossip,” Bridget said, “or simply as talk about a particular subject or event. When you hear about it more often than you might expect to or come across the same rumor from multiple sources, we call it chatter.”

  At Simon’s nod, Peter returned his look to Bridget. “So what have you heard?”

  “You’re not going to like it,” Bridget said.

  “Tell me.”

  “An alliance where one might least expect it,” she said.

  “Who?” Simon and Peter said together.

  “Between King Philip of France and Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester.”

  Chapter Ten

  Math

  “What exactly are they doing?” Math said to Llywelyn as Anna
and Meg followed Rachel and Abraham into another room.

  He understood the need to wait outside—he was just the son-in-law, after all. In the medieval world, he had no business being present at the birth of his own child, even though he had been, much less at a breast exam of his mother-in-law.

  “You’re asking me?” Llywelyn said, in a perfect imitation of Dafydd. Then he cleared his throat. “Meg explained that they’re going to take a picture of the lump with various devices, which will tell them something about what the lump is made of. If they’re still worried, they might do a biopsy, which is a way to take a sample of it.”

  Math knew he looked horrified but couldn’t help it. He almost didn’t dare ask, but asked anyway. “How do they do that?”

  “A big hollow needle, apparently.”

  Math shivered. “No point waiting here by the door, is there? Dafydd and the others have left, so we should patrol the perimeter in case those officers of the state return.”

  A grateful look crossed Llywelyn’s face. “We should. This is a mission like any other.”

  Thinking about military tactics had been a way of life for Math since he was ten years old. He’d been pleased to learn that much of the principles he’d been taught had been confirmed by Callum and Peter. One of these was not to split up. Two men together kept each other awake, could spell one another, shout when one was in trouble or down, and were harder to disable.

  Math kept a hand on the hilt of his sword as they exited the waiting room, which he recognized from his hospital in Llangollen. They had taken the stairs to the second floor of the building, where Dr. Wolff’s examination room was located, and after a quick survey of the associated empty offices and corridor, they followed them back down again.

  “How are you finding things so far?” Llywelyn said.

  “I haven’t seen much of anything yet,” Math said.

  “True.” And then, “It’s the perfection that always strikes me most.”

  Math nodded. “The lines are straight, the walls aren’t just whitewashed—they’re white—and there isn’t a scuffmark to be seen.”