Guardians of Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  “Just thinking,” Peter said.

  If he and Bridget were really in a relationship, which he wanted very much, he knew he needed to learn how to tell her more about what was in his mind, but he didn’t want to talk about the twenty-first century with Simon present. Peter flicked his eyes in the direction of the man-at-arms, and instead of being irritated by Peter’s lack of communication, Bridget nodded.

  “Okay,” she said. “How far are we going tonight?”

  “Let’s decide after we eat.” Peter should have been tired, given the upheavals of the day, but he was wide awake, and so were Bridget and Simon, who’d stayed a silent shadow, leading the way for the ride from the ambush site. “The steward here always has a good ear to the ground.”

  Chirk wasn’t exactly a booming metropolis, but because of the royal manor, it included a small village. The three of them had to pass the green and the church dedicated to St. Tysilio in order to reach the manor house, which was nestled in the bend of the River Ceiriog. Peter’s eyes lit for a second at the thought of sharing what was sure to be a very uncomfortable bed with Bridget.

  It wouldn’t do, though. Not with standards of propriety in the Middle Ages. Still, if they decided to stay, the manor included two rooms in the back, which would hopefully be serviceable for their needs and might possibly be more comfortable than any bed at the inn in Whittington. It was their decision to arrive so late. They could have returned to Dinas Bran and started in the morning, so they had no business being choosy about where they laid their heads.

  In the last year, Peter had ranged all around this area with Darren as part of their service to Callum and to Samuel, as the sheriff, keeping the peace in Shropshire. Chirk itself, though on the English side of Offa’s Dyke, had always had strong ties to Wales. While Peter had grown up in a suburb of Bristol, the countryside had never been far away, at least for him. He’d spent his holidays on his grandparents’ small farm near Cwmhir Abbey in Wales, where Llywelyn’s headless body was said to have been buried in 1282 after his head had been taken to England and stuck on a pike at the Tower of London.

  Chirk was around forty miles as the crow flies from Abbey Cwmhir, and Shropshire was the same green landscape he’d grown up with, even if, east of Offa’s Dyke, it was somewhat less mountainous than Wales proper. Afghanistan had been dry but mountainous in places, and he’d been far more comfortable with that landscape than the city kids from London, Manchester, or Liverpool.

  Peter had been to the manor at least a half-dozen times before, though always with Darren. George, the steward, recognized him instantly as he and Bridget entered the small hall, which was approximately twenty-four by thirty-six feet.

  “My lord!” Looking concernedly at their wet clothes, George hurried across the wooden floor. “What can I get for you and—” he paused, eyebrows raised, “—your lady wife?” George only glanced at Simon, who’d come in right behind them, recognizing him as a retainer rather than a knight. “I have a nice table here for you by the fire.”

  Knowing his place, Simon made his way to the back of the hall, where members of the manor’s small garrison were seated. He had a beer in front of him almost before he sat down.

  “Thank you, George. We need food and drink.”

  “And, perhaps a place to sleep for the night?” George said.

  Peter glanced at Bridget, who nodded and shrugged at the same time. It was late. “If you have it,” Peter said. “And how many times do I have to tell you that I’m not a lord and am barely a knight.”

  Callum had knighted both Darren and Peter, claiming that in order to serve him properly, they needed to have the authority that came with the station. Peter was afraid that other men in Callum’s guard would resent them leapfrogging over them, but they hadn’t—mostly because Callum treated everyone fairly. Any man who could afford his own sword and horse, and had distinguished himself in Callum’s service, could find himself knighted.

  Callum didn’t care about bloodlines. He’d also knighted Samuel, who had to be the only Jewish knight in the entire realm.

  “Of course, sir,” George said, ignoring Peter’s request as he always did. “This way.”

  Bridget smiled. “Thank you.”

  Once seated, Peter leaned across the table towards Bridget. “You understand the deception about our relationship?”

  “I shouldn’t be traveling with you unless I’m your wife,” she said. “I know.”

  “You don’t mind, though, do you?” Peter said. “Being my wife, I mean?”

  He had no idea before he said the words that he was going to ask her that question. It had burst out of him without him thinking, and, as usual with women, he’d done this completely the wrong way round. No romance, no flowers or poems, no loving words.

  Bridget just sat looking at him, her hands in her lap. She hadn’t answered his question of course. What woman would, given the way he’d asked?

  “You don’t have to answer, but please, don’t make a scene.”

  Bridget gave a short laugh and shook her head. “When have I ever made a scene?”

  Then George was back with wine for both of them, followed by a boy carrying a trencher with meat, cheese, fresh baked bread, and onions enough for two.

  “George,” Peter said before the steward could leave, “have you noticed anything unusual along the road through Chirk today?”

  George adjusted the trencher so it lay exactly equidistant from Peter and Bridget. Peter had noticed a perfectionist tendency—almost a military rigidity—in George the previous times he’d visited here. It was always odd to encounter in a medieval person what he would have viewed as a strictly modern sensibility. It indicated, of course, that there was very little about human behavior that was truly modern.

  “I don’t know if I could say one way or the other. What do you mean by unusual?”

  Peter swiveled in his chair to survey the room, which was moderately full with perhaps a dozen other people, mostly men, but a few women too, maids or wives. Christmas Eve was a time for community and celebration, no less here than in the modern world. In this case, however, they might all be sitting up late because they would shortly be attending midnight mass at the church. He and Bridget would need to go too.

  “I apologize for not being specific enough. What I meant was—has anyone mentioned seeing riders along the road to Whittington today—either more men than usual, possibly passing north as a group and returning south in smaller companies?”

  Peter was guessing about the latter arrangement, but if he had been the one to ambush a French emissary and the High Steward of Scotland, that’s the way he’d have done it.

  George frowned. “The road definitely saw more traffic today than usual, but that would be because of the Scots.”

  “The Scots?” Peter spoke without emphasis, trying to ask the question without implying that he cared. His stomach growled, and he stabbed the tip of his belt knife into an onion. He hadn’t realized he was hungry.

  “Cousins of Lord Fulk, come down from the north.” George made a sour face. “I can hardly understand them when they speak, though they claim it’s English.”

  “Have some come here?” Peter said.

  “A few,” George said. “They have plenty of food and drink down at the castle, of course, and I’ve heard Lord Fulk has sent out hunting parties every day.”

  “Hunting parties,” Peter said. “Really.”

  George hesitated, swallowing hard. Hunting wasn’t a privilege accorded to just anyone, even to a local lord like Fulk Fitzwarin, who ruled at Whittington. The king—meaning David—controlled all forests in England, and Wales should be off limits to any English hunting party.

  “I-I-I don’t know,” George said.

  Peter rubbed his chin. “Thank you, George, for being honest with me. I didn’t hear it from you.”

  His expression cleared. “Thank you, sir.” He bowed and departed.

  Peter ate a slice of mutton, thinking hard. That Scots were at Whitti
ngton and James Stewart had been abducted a few miles to the north couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “I don’t know this Fulk Fitzwarin, though.” Bridget’s brow furrowed. “He must be a by-blow of the Warenne family.” Among the Normans, an illegitimate child whose father acknowledged him acquired his father’s surname, with the addition of fitz before the name.

  Peter’s parents hadn’t been married when they’d had his older sister, though they did marry before his birth, with the odd idea that, while one child wasn’t enough to seal the deal, two ought to be. They’d made it work, and he got on with them well enough, though his dad hadn’t supported his joining the military. Peter had written and phoned during the time he’d been in the Middle East and then Africa, but the long months and years of separation had taken its toll on their relationship. With him staying in the Middle Ages for the foreseeable future, it seemed unlikely it was ever going to improve.

  “The connection isn’t recent as far as I know,” Peter said.

  The medieval obsession with illegitimacy became comprehensible as soon as you realized that condemning a child for the sins of his parents wasn’t actually about sin or damnation, but about money. In England, illegitimate children, even those acknowledged by their fathers, weren’t supposed to inherit. When two nobles married, the bargain struck was that the son of the woman would inherit the father’s money, and vice versa.

  Sometimes a child was acknowledged anyway if he or she was royal—and sometimes even when he wasn’t, as seemed to be the case for whatever bastard in the Warenne family had raised himself to the point of inheriting Whittington Castle. David hadn’t produced any illegitimate children himself—no Fitzroys were running about Westminster Palace—so, he had hadn’t chosen to press the issue yet.

  In Wales, illegitimacy was ignored by all parties if the father acknowledged the child. And in that case, the child inherited equally with his legitimate siblings—and could even be the chief heir. This policy had been changing in the years leading up to David’s arrival in Wales in 1282, as England gained more control over Wales politically. But these days, with King Llywelyn, whose own father was illegitimate, on the throne, traditional Welsh law continued to prevail. David wasn’t technically legitimate either, since his parents hadn’t been legally married at his birth.

  Peter was pretty sure nobody remembered the true situation anymore—or if they did, nobody, nobody, would have the temerity to suggest that David wasn’t going to inherit his father’s kingdom.

  Peter lowered his voice again so it wouldn’t carry beyond their table. “Do you have any idea what the Scots could be doing with the Fitzwarins?”

  Bridget stared down at her vegetables. “The wife of King John Balliol of Scotland is a Warenne, you know.”

  “I want to believe that’s a coincidence,” Peter said, “but I can’t, not if there are Scots at Whittington, and Fitzwarin has Scottish cousins.”

  “Could the King of Scotland really have had a hand in abducting his High Steward from an English highway?” Bridget said.

  Peter shook his head, his eyes searching the hall for George. “With the Scots, anything is possible.”

  Bridget made a face. “I’m Scottish.”

  Peter whipped his head back around. “I didn’t mean you!”

  Bridget grinned, and laughter filled her face. “I know you didn’t. I was teasing.”

  One of Peter’s problems with women had always been that he was too sincere and misunderstood situations like this as a matter of course.

  “We should ride to Whittington,” Bridget said.

  “It would be gone midnight before we got there, and while Fitzwarin would admit us because I’m undersheriff to Samuel, we wouldn’t be welcomed with open arms, and we would certainly arouse his suspicions if he has something to hide.”

  Bridget looked down at her food, which she’d hardly touched. “You’re right.”

  “Besides, we’ll be no good to James Stewart or anyone else tomorrow if we haven’t slept. We’re not in Avalon and can’t behave as if we are. But I can tell you this: King David isn’t sleeping.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  David

  David wasn’t sleeping. In fact, David was pretty sure that none of them were going to be getting sleep any time soon. They’d arrived at the clinic ten minutes after leaving the university. While everyone was pleased Mom didn’t have cancer, David found himself somewhat subdued over Abraham Wolff’s adamant request to come home with them—and with Mom defending his choice.

  “The whole point of this trip was to reduce the number of modern people in the Middle Ages, not add more!” David said.

  “I know how he feels to be without his daughter,” Mom said.

  David opened his mouth to argue more but then couldn’t think of anything to say, so he snapped his mouth shut, deciding he didn’t actually have to decide this one way or the other right now. They weren’t going back this minute.

  “There’s more,” Anna said. “Rupert Jones, that reporter who’s gone off to Caernarfon? Abraham talked to him after the Cardiff bombing.”

  David looked at Abraham in surprise. “Why?”

  “I was looking for Rachel,” Abraham said simply, “a fact for which I will not apologize. Rupert does not appear to have done his homework, however, if he came to my clinic without knowing it was mine. Or perhaps he spoke with so many people after the bombings that he didn’t immediately connect my questions for him in Cardiff a year ago with a clinic in Gwynedd today.”

  “Good job he didn’t,” Darren said, “or he would have been far harder to get rid of.”

  “As it is, we sic’d him on the bus passengers in Caernarfon,” David said with something like a moan.

  “I didn’t mean to do more than get rid of him,” Math said. “It was all I could think of.”

  “It is what it is, Math,” Mom said, her hand on her son-in-law’s arm. “He would have gotten the report from the Black Boar whether or not you ever said anything to him about it.”

  They all piled into the van, Rachel sandwiched in the very back between her father and Darren, in what had to be an uncomfortable manner.

  Darren stuck out his hand to Abraham again. “Sir, Rachel and I are more than friends. I just wanted you to know.”

  Abraham shook his hand, a smile hovering around his lips, which boded well for Darren. “I know. Rachel told me. I’m glad she has had someone there to care for her.”

  David eased out a breath. That could have been more awkward. Abraham was at least putting a good face on it, but even David could see the slightly pinched look around Abraham’s mouth, indicating that maybe he wasn’t quite as accepting of Rachel and Darren as he looked.

  Abraham directed his next question to Callum. “How is it that MI-5 could possibly have tracked you so quickly? Surely you’re not using your own identities?”

  Since everyone on the planet—including, it seemed, Rachel’s father—had seen too many spy movies by now, they knew that using credit cards and your own identification was always the first mistake of someone on the run. Callum twisted in his seat to answer. He sat this time in the second row since Cassie was driving again and Mark was beside her, navigating.

  “Mark tapped into MI-5,” Callum said. “He didn’t even have to get in very far to find the chatter about our arrival. Apparently, someone was filming the snowy motorway when we appeared out of nowhere, driving the wrong way down it. There’s just no reasonable explanation for that, and even with it being Christmas Eve, the slowest analyst might sit up and take notice of a video showing our arrival.”

  David added, “For whatever reason, there’s a flash—or a ‘flare out’ as that reporter said—that isn’t visible to the naked eye but is picked up by camera and radar. If anyone was looking, they’d see it. The whole point of coming here today was that nobody would be looking, but I guess that was too much to hope for.”

  “The bus passengers have pretty much given the game away anyway,” Cassie said. “I wish
we could have stopped them.”

  David turned to her. “How? The second we arrived, they stampeded for the door. We could have held them by force, but that would have been worse in the long run. I should have given more thought to what would happen when we arrived, but I didn’t.”

  “I didn’t either,” Callum said. “This isn’t all on you.”

  “David isn’t their king anymore,” Anna said. “It’s actually Papa and Math who concern me most.”

  “Us?” Math was sprawled beside Anna, his arm across the back of the seat. “We’re just along for the ride, as you say.”

  Dad laughed too. “Meg does not have cancer, so I am the least of your worries.”

  “You’re medieval, Papa, and the King of Wales,” Anna said. “I’m sure anyone from MI-5 to whatever that private security force was called—” she looked at Callum.

  “The Dunland Group turned CMI.”

  “Right, them,” Anna said, “would love to keep you in a locked room.”

  Dad frowned and glanced at David. “We’ve talked about that, and I would like to avoid it, if possible.”

  “You know what?” David said. “You guys should go back right now. Mom got what she came for. There’s no reason to stay. I can take everyone else later.”

  “I’m not leaving until I see my sister,” Mom said.

  David rested his head against the window. “Right. I forgot what we were doing for a second.”

  “Better if we stick together, son,” Dad said.

  “By the way, has anyone heard from Jane?” Cassie glanced in the rearview mirror before returning her eyes to the road. The snow was continuing to fall, if anything more heavily than before. David hadn’t seen a snowplow yet and wondered how many there might be in all of Gwynedd, much less the UK.