Guardians of Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  Rupert had seen buses attempt to navigate through the archway many times, and the drivers of some of the larger buses, of which the Cardiff bus was one, had to go so far as to pull in the bus’s side mirrors in order to get through it.

  Nobody on this bus was making any attempt to pull in the mirrors, to slow down, or in any way to prevent the catastrophe that was bearing down upon them at a hundred kilometers an hour. Open-mouthed with horror, Rupert watched the bus careen down the roadway towards it.

  He screamed. “Stop! Stop!”

  When his cry made no appreciable difference to the speed of the bus, he clenched the bar in front of him and closed his eyes, too frightened and overcome to even make a pledge about how he was going to change his life—at a minimum to drink and smoke less—if someone would only get him off this bus in one piece.

  Rupert opened his eyes. The hundred yards from the barrier had turned into fifty—to twenty. His eyes bugged out as death rose up to meet him.

  And to his surprise, not only was there life after death, but it turned out to be something other than an endless black abyss.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Bridget

  “I don’t know if coming here was, in fact, a good idea,” Bridget said.

  They’d left their somewhat cramped quarters at Chirk at dawn, saying goodbye to the steward and thanking him for his hospitality, and ridden the five miles to Whittington castle. It was Christmas Day, so George had thought them odd to be leaving so early, but he was also a medieval man, so he hadn’t taken it upon himself to question the decisions of a knight in the Earl of Shrewsbury’s company.

  “Might not have been.” Peter had borrowed the binoculars that Ieuan had been looking through back at Llangollen. He was using them to study the ramparts of Whittington Castle, which lay to the west of their position. They had taken up a post in the tavern across the road from the castle, and since there were no other customers in the main room this morning, nobody had so far objected to the open shutter.

  The rain had abated for the time being, but Bridget couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. December rain made men miserable and less likely to go out, ask questions, or wonder about anything other than when they would next be able to put their feet to a fire. She and Peter had already spent the hour since they’d arrived watching the castle entrance and the traffic in and out of the main gate. A hay cart had entered while one hauling waste from the stable had left. Local men and women, perhaps hired as extra workers to deal with all the guests, lifted their hands to the guards as they passed through.

  No riders or Scots made themselves known. James Stewart hadn’t put in an appearance.

  “What if we were to walk up to the castle and ask for hospitality like we talked about last night?” Bridget said. “You are one of Callum’s men, and it’s Christmas Day.”

  “We could,” Peter said.

  Bridget pursed her lips. “If we were to do that, it would probably be better if it appeared as if we’ve just arrived—except that the gossip from the tavern could reach the steward’s ears that you and I spent an hour in here before we showed up over there.”

  “Maybe,” Peter said.

  “Definitely,” Bridget said. “How do you think I get my information to pass on to you and Callum in the first place?”

  Peter smiled.

  The castle plan bore some resemblance to Caerphilly Castle, where Bridget had spent just a little bit of time before finding her feet in Shrewsbury. The keep sat in the middle of a moat such that water surrounded it on all sides. A bridge led from the keep’s inner gatehouse over the moat to the outer bailey, which was also surrounded by water. Its gatehouse, in turn, protected the entrance and was guarded by two giant D-shaped towers. A system of dikes and ditches also surrounded the whole site.

  “My lord.” Simon appeared in the doorway that led to the tavern’s kitchen, which was located in the back of the main building. “Over here!”

  Bridget and Peter left their station by the window and followed Simon out the back door; across the courtyard where hens pecked at the ground, looking for bits of grain; and then out the rear gate into the field beyond.

  A few paces further on, to the north of the tavern, Simon stopped. The short walk in the grass had Bridget’s dress soaked to mid-calf, a natural consequence of wearing medieval clothing, but she was warm enough in her leather boots, wool socks, and leggings. Women might not wear pants as the outer layer in the Middle Ages, but they weren’t such fools that they couldn’t figure out a way to keep warm by wearing them underneath.

  “What is it?” Peter said as he stopped near a row of bushes that marked the end of the tavern’s land and behind which Simon appeared to be hiding.

  “Look.” Simon canted his head to indicate a gap in the vegetation.

  A dozen men had gathered on the road to the north of the castle, in an area Bridget and Peter hadn’t been able to see from the inn itself. The men seemed to be having a conference. One man spoke heatedly, and another responded in kind.

  “It looks like a disagreement,” Bridget said. “Where did they come from?”

  “Either they left the castle before dawn, or they’ve been out all night,” Simon said.

  “It would be good to know if they’re coming from the castle or going,” Bridget said.

  “Can you tell if they’re Scottish?” Peter said.

  “It isn’t like anybody’s wearing a kilt,” Bridget said.

  “I know, but—”

  “My red hair isn’t some kind of radar for Scottishness. I don’t even speak Gaelic!” Bridget had been very disappointed to learn from Callum that the kilt, as popularized by films and time travel romances, hadn’t come into being by the thirteenth century. The Scots still wore their kilts as cloaks, just like the rest of medieval Britons.

  Peter reached over and twirled a strand of her hair around his finger. Coming from him, it was a far more intimate act than sleeping in the same room with him at Chirk had been—fully clothed with her on the bed and him on the floor. Somehow Bridget had never responded to his question regarding how she felt about pretending to be his wife.

  Last night, when he’d confirmed the steward’s misunderstanding as fact, at first Bridget had been so surprised, she hadn’t known what to say. Then they’d been interrupted by the needs of the investigation—and after they’d talked about other things, it was hard to come back to the topic of their relationship, especially amidst all the people in the hall.

  Once they reached their room, Peter had dropped her off to inspect the security of the castle and confer with Simon. She’d lain awake for a long time waiting for him, but she’d eventually fallen asleep and then awoken in the darkness with him lying on the floor a few feet away, breathing as if he was asleep.

  It wasn’t as if she’d planned to sleep with him—not with the paper thin walls of the room and the narrow lumpy bed. Even as twenty-firsters, there was something to be said for not sleeping together straight away, but she would have liked to at least talk. Somehow, she was going to have to say something about his question, regardless of how inconvenient or weird the timing was. By now, he probably thought she was having second thoughts about kissing him, when the opposite couldn’t be more true.

  “From this far away, I can’t hear what they’re saying,” Simon said, and then set off at a half-crouch to get closer to the road. Bridget lost sight of him in the shrubbery. Peter took her hand so they could creep forward together.

  “If these men are responsible for the attack on the emissary, we’d need an army to get into that castle,” she said. “What are we hoping to accomplish here?”

  “I’d like something to report back to Ieaun and Samuel for our efforts,” Peter said. “I’m supposed to be an investigator, so I’m investigating. Whittington Castle with Scots in attendance is currently our only clue as to the whereabouts of James Stewart.”

  Then the men in the road seemed to decide something because as Bridget, Peter, and Simon watched, half
led their horses across the forty-foot drawbridge to the gatehouse, and the other half pointed their horses north and rode away. Bridget expected them to take the road that led northwest back to Chirk, some five miles away, or towards the turnoff a hundred yards north of the castle, which would take them northeast, back to Scotland.

  Instead, they circled around the moat and dismounted before the most distant watchtower that lay to the northwest of the castle. It was reachable only by this external road, or by boat from the outer bailey, were someone to row across the moat to a narrow landing at the back.

  “I don’t suppose we need to wonder what—or who—might be in that watchtower,” Simon said.

  “I still can’t believe King Philip would attack his own emissary,” Bridget said.

  “We have no evidence against anyone one way or the other,” Peter said. “Just because these men are Scots doesn’t make them villains.”

  Typically English, Simon didn’t look convinced.

  Peter backed away. “There’s only one way to find out.”

  They loped back to the inn where they’d left the horses. As they had come into Whittington from the west and north earlier that morning, it was unreasonable to think that none of the watchers on the walls had noticed. Thus, they abandoned any notion of making it appear as if they’d just arrived and mounted their horses in order to walk them the few dozen yards down the road to the gatehouse of the castle.

  This same road, if they stayed on it, could take them all the way home to Shrewsbury. Despite her nervousness about entering Whittington Castle, Bridget wasn’t ready to go home just yet. She’d never been on this end of an investigation before, and she was extremely curious about what would happen next.

  The drawbridge remained down. Bridget didn’t know if the sentries normally left it down all day, or if they were leaving it down because so many people were coming and going, and it would be silly to pull it up when they’d only have to put it down again five minutes later.

  Peter dismounted before the portcullis, which was also up. Unlike the local visitors, it would be impolite of him, especially as an officer of the law from Shrewsbury, to walk right in. A guard stood just inside the gate, and Peter said, “Greetings! We seek admittance.”

  A second guard hurried towards them, gesturing with one hand that they should cross the drawbridge and approach the gate. Bridget was glad because she felt the first drops of rain on her head and preferred not to get soaked again when her clothes had barely dried from yesterday.

  “I am Peter Cobb, liege man of Lord Callum, the Earl of Shrewsbury. I would speak to your lord.”

  The guardsman bobbed his head. “You are welcome to enter. Please wait here beneath the tower while I send a man to find the steward.”

  “Thank you.” Peter gestured to Bridget. “I would prefer my lady wife doesn’t become chilled.”

  “Of course, my lord.” He smiled ingratiatingly and pointed at another one of the guardsmen, who took off at a run, his feet pounding on the slate walkway of the courtyard towards the bridge that crossed the moat to the inner gatehouse.

  Bridget shifted on her feet, impatient with the wait.

  Peter caught her hand, and she stilled, his message coming through loud and clear. It was important that they didn’t do anything that would call attention to themselves or arouse suspicion. Peter would talk briefly to Fitzwarin, they would gather as much information as they could about the inhabitants of the castle, and they would leave. That was all.

  They had to wait only a few minutes, during which time the rain began to fall in earnest, before the guardsman reappeared with the steward, who, heedless of the rain, maintained a steady, unhurried pace towards them. He came to a halt in front of Peter and bowed.

  “My lord, I’m sorry for the delay. How may I be of service?”

  “I am Peter Cobb, undersheriff in Shrewsbury, traveling to Chirk with my lady wife. Is Lord Fitzwarin in residence?”

  “He is.” The steward frowned and lowered his voice. “But he has visitors already, and they have been much in conference. I do not know that he has a moment to receive you.”

  “I am here with Christmas greetings from the Earl of Shrewsbury,” Peter said, blithely dropping Callum’s title again.

  The steward’s face blanched. “Of course, my lord. I will let Lord Fitzwarin know you are here.”

  Bridget placed a hand on her belly. “I am really feeling quite faint.”

  The steward’s eyes widened, getting the message Bridget intended to send—that she was in the early stages of pregnancy. “My lady, this way.”

  The steward jerked his head at the guard, who directed Simon to lead the horses towards the adjacent stable. Meanwhile, Peter and Bridget followed the steward towards the inner gate. It was a hundred feet from the gatehouse to the bridge across the moat, and then another hundred feet across the bridge in order to reach the shelter of the inner gatehouse. The castle hadn’t looked very large from inside the tavern, but it seemed much bigger now that they were inside and, despite the rain, the bailey bustled with people and animals.

  Passing beneath the second gatehouse, Bridget and Peter entered the inner ward, the heart of the castle. With both hands, Bridget gripped Peter’s arm, which he’d bent at the elbow to escort her. “This may have been a very bad idea.”

  “Breathe,” he said. “It’s going to be fine.”

  She had no choice but to believe him, and she worked to steady her breathing and ignore the fact that the hairs on the back of her neck were standing straight up. The great hall crouched at the eastern end of the castle, having been built into the curtain wall, and was accessible by a set of wooden stairs.

  Bridget and Peter followed the steward up them and entered through the narrow doorway. Like many Norman castles, where security was the primary focus, the door was meant to be the last defense in case an enemy breached the inner and outer walls.

  Only seventy feet by twenty-five feet, the hall wasn’t even as large as the one at Dinas Bran, but it was warm and well-appointed, with tapestries on all the walls and a raised dais at one end upon which the high table sat. The hall was full too, with at least sixty people in it, mostly armed men. A fire burned hot in the fireplace. Bridget half-expected to see Christmas stockings hanging from the mantle but, of course, that custom wouldn’t arise for hundreds of years.

  As they entered, the people closest to the door looked over but returned their attentions to their meals when they didn’t recognize either Peter or Bridget. At the far end of the hall, a dozen men ranged around the high table, eating and talking jovially. It was Christmas Day, mass had probably already been said, and the rest of the day would be spent in revelry. A few men stood in a circle on the near side of the table, opposite the lord’s seat, but Bridget could see through the moving figures to the central trio.

  Peter bent to Bridget’s ear. “That’s Fulk Fitzwarin, there, in the center.”

  Fulk was a middle-aged baron with a full head of salt and pepper hair and a dark brown beard also shot with gray. She couldn’t make out his expression well from the distance, but his head was turned to the man beside him, who was hidden from her view by someone standing across from him.

  “Who does Lord Fitzwarin entertain?” Bridget asked the steward.

  She would have liked to have asked that question earlier, but she hadn’t wanted to appear nosy and blow their cover.

  “Foreign relatives,” the steward said, and Bridget didn’t think she mistook the disapproving sniff that accompanied the words.

  “Who might they be?” Peter said.

  Even as the steward answered, Bridget cursed herself for not thinking more deeply about Fulk Fitzwarin’s Scottish ties a bit sooner and realizing that this branch of the Warenne family might have other ties to Scotland beyond King John Balliol. She hit upon the name of one of the men only a half-second before the steward said it.

  “That would be Red Comyn, nephew to the King of Scotland. And on the other side of Lord Fulk is Co
myn’s brother-in-law, Aymer de Valence.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Peter

  Bridget stood frozen next to Peter, her hand clutched around his arm in a tight grip. She needn’t have worried that Peter would give away her shock. The message she was sending was getting through loud and clear, and Peter already regretted walking into this castle without a plan for getting out. Fortunately, the steward seemed oblivious to the tension emanating from his guests, though if Bridget gripped Peter’s arm any tighter, he might lose all feeling in his hand.

  Peter cleared his throat. “I didn’t realize Fitzwarin was related to the Comyns.”

  “Lady Isabella de Warenne is John Balliol’s wife, of course. It’s through her connection that my lord Fulk is related to Comyn and Valence. If you give me a moment, I will tell Lord Fulk you are here.”

  Peter was trying hard not to choke on his own breath. “Thank you.”

  The steward gestured to a vacant spot at the end of one of the long tables, and then he glided, head held high, towards the dais.

  “You’d better tell me everything that you can remember about these family ties before the steward gets back,” Peter said.

  “Okay. So William de Valence had several children who—”

  Peter grasped her hand as it lay on the table. “William de Valence? I never met him, but I heard about him. You’re telling me that this is his hand reaching out to us from beyond the grave?”

  “I don’t like it either. But Aymer is his only surviving son and heir and, given what happened to his father, he bears no love for England or David. He would stab David in the back and never blink an eye.”