Masters of Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  Gwenllian wanted to believe her.

  Then Lili looked back to Clare. “I want to hear more about what happened to Dafydd. How do you know he’s dead?”

  Clare’s shoulders rose and fell. “My queen, I’m sorry. My men were there.”

  Gwenllian looked up at Lili. “Aren’t you going to tell him about—”

  A strong hand came down on Gwenllian’s shoulder, stopping her words. Lord Carew stood next to her. He didn’t say anything, but the hard look in his eyes told her that the last thing he or Lili wanted Clare to know about was Lili’s vision.

  Fortunately, Clare’s attention had remained on Lili, and he held out a hand to her, indicating that it was time to move. “I assure you—as I will assure Parliament when it convenes—that the French will pay for what they have done.”

  “You will lead our troops?” Lili started forward at Carew’s urging. Gwenllian hoped he had a plan, because hers were all used up.

  “Who else?” Clare said. “For the second time in nine months, France threatens to invade. We must have immediate leadership.”

  “You seek the throne, Gilbert?”

  “My dear.” Wide-eyed, with his hand to his chest, Clare stopped and turned to Lili. “The throne belongs to Arthur.”

  Through her natural mother, Elinor de Montfort, Gwenllian herself was the great-granddaughter of King John. For the first time, she wished she were older, because then she could have gone before Parliament and argued that she instead of Clare should be the one to lead England until Arthur came of age. She knew from listening to adult conversations how important royal blood was for claiming the throne, though Dafydd had never claimed to have royal English blood any more than Clare did. Dafydd did have plenty of royal Welsh blood, which seemed to have been enough for everyone.

  Lili pressed her lips together and followed Clare through the doorway. Gwenllian was walking beside Lili, so she heard Carew’s words when he leaned down to whisper in Welsh in Lili’s ear. “Don’t fight them for now. We’ll find a way out of this. I will get word to our Templar friends somehow. They will help.”

  “They were supposed to have helped Dafydd already.” Lili’s lips barely moved as she answered.

  “The only possible way that Clare could be standing before us today, in this hour, telling us of David’s death, is if it was his man who shot those arrows at David and Philip, just as you dreamed. The fact that he wasn’t there himself to witness it, as he had promised to be, is enough to convince me that he had a hand in it, despite his apparent sincerity today.”

  Gwenllian felt much better all of a sudden, and she thought Lili did too because she gave a jerky nod. “I wish I knew if Bridget and Peter reached Callum. And what of Bohun? Against all expectation, he has been one of our staunchest allies, and yet I left him to deal with Clare on his own.”

  “We could do only so much. If Clare is as smart as he appears to be, he will have taken over the radio relays and bent them to his own purposes,” Carew said. “For now, they are as much on their own as we are.”

  The guards closed in on their little group and, under the guise of guarding them, with Clare leading the way, herded them into the bailey of the castle. Gwenllian’s back was aching more than ever, but Arthur had wrapped himself around her—his arms around her neck and his legs around her waist—and she didn’t want to make him more upset by putting him down or giving him up to someone else. Since Lili was already holding Alexander, there wasn’t anyone to give him to anyway.

  To Gwenllian’s surprise and relief, Clare didn’t head across the bailey towards the castle gate but turned the other way to walk deeper into the castle grounds. Earlier, when Clare had suggested they go to the Tower, Gwenllian had thought Clare meant the Tower of London, because everyone just called it the Tower. Clare however, had simply meant the tower that housed the king’s quarters at Westminster.

  Geoffrey de Geneville, Dafydd’s ambassador to the French court, met them at the entrance. He canted his head to Clare. “It is done. Our men are in place.”

  “The queen thanks you, Geoffrey. It is good to know that all is well.”

  Geoffrey’s expression blanked for a moment at Clare’s words, but then he recovered and said, “As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

  Clare nodded, a little shame faced. “My apologies. I was referring only to the security of the castle.” He gestured to Lili. “I would appreciate it if you could continue to see to the comfort and safety of the queen and the children. They are not to be disturbed so they can mourn King David in peace.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Carew and Lili passed Geoffrey and Clare, who were still conferring, and crossed the ground floor room of the King’s Tower. With Gwenllian hard on their heels, they entered the stairwell that would take them up to the chamber level.

  Carew bent to Lili again. “My dear, Arthur isn’t safe here. Is there any way for him to travel to Avalon as his father has done so often in the past? It might be that you’re wrong about what happened with David, and he is already there. That could be why Clare thinks he’s dead.”

  Lili started up the stairs. “You imply that Clare had nothing to do with it, Nicholas.”

  Nicholas grunted. “Lili—”

  She cut him off, finally answering his question. “We don’t know if Arthur has the gift of travel.”

  Gwenllian was straining so hard to eavesdrop on what they were saying that she almost tripped over her own feet. The stumble did give her the opportunity to get closer, just at the point that Carew lifted his chin to point briefly back down the stairs at Gwenllian and Arthur.

  “As long as David’s sons live, they are the rightful heirs to the throne. Clare may not be actively seeking the throne now, but he would take it if offered—and we don’t know that Parliament won’t offer, especially if he has the support of the Archbishop of Canterbury. I would have the boys hidden away in Avalon, to return when they were needed, as Llywelyn arranged for David when he was an infant in order to protect him.”

  Lili gave a brief shake of her head. “We can’t risk Arthur’s life.”

  “All your lives are forfeit,” Carew said in an even lower voice. “You know that. Maybe not today, but soon. Even if Parliament doesn’t offer Clare the crown, he will quietly remove you from Westminster, and nobody will ever hear from you again.”

  “I know. I know,” Lili said. “With his behavior today, I see now that there is nothing he wouldn’t dare.”

  Gwenllian was starting to shake. Any fool could see that they were in trouble, but for Clare to have decided to murder them—to murder little Arthur—was nearly impossible for her to get her head around. Carew seemed very sure of it, however, and that meant Gwenllian had to be sure of it too. Carew might be half-Norman, but he’d stood by Dafydd and her father even when the odds had been stacked against them, and this wasn’t the time to be disbelieving him.

  Carew was still shaking his head at Lili as they entered the king’s apartments. Clare and Geoffrey had caught up by then and entered the chamber right behind Gwenllian.

  Lili turned to Clare. “I really don’t think this is necessary.”

  “It really is, my dear. We can’t lose you and the boys too.”

  His words made Gwenllian angry again, which was better than being afraid, and she almost sneered at Clare. But she had lived all her life in a royal court and knew intrigue and plotting, even if it had never been directed at her. Her anger did give her courage, however. She saw now that Lili was right: the fact that Clare could plot against Dafydd one day, and then come to Westminster and express sincere grief the next, meant there was nothing he wouldn’t dare to do.

  Chapter Twelve

  14 June 1293

  David

  David woke Philip at first light, having by some miracle spent the night without encountering a soul. Maybe Clare’s men couldn’t see in the dark any better than David could and had called it a night too. It was too much to hope that they’d given up.
>
  “This is not how I imagined I would spend my birthday,” Philip said.

  “We were going to have cake,” David crouched beside him, checking his bandages, “and I hoped it would be a chance to celebrate the new treaty between us.”

  “We still have to talk about that,” Philip said.

  David tsked through his teeth. “Some other time.”

  While Philip had slept for a full eight hours at least, David had stood guard, though he’d dozed on and off despite his best efforts to stay awake. The combination of food and rest and another change of bandages had brightened Philip’s eyes, and he appeared to be in a little less pain. Consequently, five hours later, they had actually made reasonable time—two miles an hour perhaps instead of the one mile an hour the day before—and it wasn’t quite noon when the pair came to a halt on the outskirts of the village of La Rochelle.

  David helped Philip down from the horse, and they crouched together on the edge of a small knoll south of the town. David cupped his hands around his eyes to block out the sun, which shone brightly down. The warmth was nice, but the clouds and rain from the night before would have been better, since they made them less likely to be detected. David had learned in his years in England that a man with his hood up against the weather was less likely to be stopped or questioned, and he’d specifically cautioned his own men to beware of men wearing hoods. One never knew what lay hidden beneath a cloak.

  Still, David was grateful for the sun, which might even dry him out if it stayed around for a little longer. The padding under his mail hadn’t dried much at all during the night. He had been wet almost nonstop for thirty-six hours now—first from the river, then from the rain, and now from sweat. When he finally reached safety again and took off everything he wore to have that long-awaited bath, he’d resemble a prune. Of course, he mocked himself, that was the least of his worries, though if Lili knew of it, she would fuss.

  “We should rest at Vauclair Castle. It is just there.” Philip gestured towards the towers. Built of white sandstone, which was luminous in the sunlight, Vauclair Castle had four towers, and David’s banner still waved from the tops of all of them. “The men there will recognize you and aid us.”

  “They don’t know me,” David said, “I’ve never been here before. They are as likely as the villagers we encountered to believe Clare’s men that I am the assassin.”

  Philip frowned. “Surely you can’t doubt the loyalty of the men in this castle too?”

  David laughed softly, though without amusement. “Surely, I can. Haven’t you been paying attention? It is Clare who garrisoned my castles; Clare who handpicked the men who met me at the dock.”

  David hadn’t set foot in Aquitaine—especially the territory here which was newly acquired—until he and Philip could meet because he hadn’t wanted to rub Philip’s face in what he’d lost. Not to do so had been an important concession on David’s part. But of course, it had been Clare who’d suggested that concession—and since he and Geoffrey de Geneville had been David’s foremost negotiators between the two countries, and Geoffrey had agreed that such a concession was vital, David had trusted their judgement.

  The French king was still frowning. “I didn’t realize the extent of your mistake until now. I thought we just had to reach La Rochelle, and we’d be safe. You would see that the Templars were not our only option.”

  David shook his head. “I trusted where I shouldn’t have, but I did it because I was in the midst of negotiations with you.”

  Then, as they watched, three riders entered La Rochelle from the east and, in so doing, demonstrated perfectly why safety lay with the Templars or nowhere. David put a hand on Philip’s good shoulder. “Get down.”

  They ducked below the level of the bushes in front of them. After a moment, David peered around the side, trying to get some kind of view of the road. Now it was Philip’s turn to cup his hands around his eyes and swear under his breath. The men had approached the front gate of Vauclair Castle and were admitted. “They wear Clare’s colors.”

  “They’re his men, like every other horseman we’ve encountered, regardless of what colors they wear.” David thought again of the man he’d killed. He didn’t even know his name.

  “Perhaps the castellan is innocent in this, and the news that you are dead and that the riders hunt your assassins will surprise him.”

  David raised his eyebrows but didn’t actually laugh. “It’s a nice thought, but now who is too trusting?”

  Philip sighed. “I agree we cannot risk detection by anyone connected to Clare. The Templar commanderie it is—if you are sure that you can trust them.”

  “All the reports out of La Rochelle, even Clare’s, indicate that the master was very pleased when his city was once again in English hands. The Templars have found a freedom under the rule of the English Duke of Aquitaine that has at times been absent under French kings.”

  Philip raised an eyebrow. “Now you’re mocking me.”

  “Sorry,” David said.

  In fact, from the very beginning of the Templar order, the Templars and the kings of England had maintained a cordial, even mutually beneficial relationship. Temple Church was neutral ground, to the point that the great knight William Marshal had negotiated with the rebel barons there in the lead-up to the signing of Magna Carta. The Templars had remained loyal to King John throughout his kingship despite his many failings. To them, the divine right of kings to rule didn’t apply only when the king was a good one.

  Philip made a sour face. “The Templars pay homage to nobody but themselves, David. You would be wise to remember it.”

  “After the last two days, there’s a lot I’m going to remember.”

  Philip muttered a curse as he dropped below the level of the bushes again. “If not for your quick thinking, Clare’s plan would have worked.”

  “Clare’s captain knows it too and seems to think that the situation is still salvageable. Containing the plot to Aquitaine is key.”

  “But once we slip through his fingers …” Philip’s voice trailed off.

  “It is my hope that we are about to do exactly that. Clare cannot be so omnipotent as to have bought the Templars too.”

  They took a moment to rest on the ground under a nearby tree. David had filled the water skin several times throughout the course of the day, and now he silently handed it to Philip again. While the French king drank, David put the back of his hand to Philip’s forehead as if he were one of David’s sons. He was burning up. The fever had him shivering, even in the June sun. Philip grimaced and pulled the black cloak, the one David had used the night before, tighter around himself.

  The cloak also hid his wound, which had soaked through the latest bandage. It might have soaked through the wool cloak too, but David couldn’t distinguish the dark red blood from the black fabric without looking closely, which he decided he didn’t need to do.

  Up until the arrival of Clare’s men, David had been thinking that it might be a good idea to leave Philip here, as he’d done back at last night’s shelter, so he could approach the Templar compound alone and try the password Carew had given him without putting Philip at risk. But Philip’s skin had a grayish cast to it that was worrisome. He needed attention, and he needed it now. Maybe having a sick man with David would be the tipping point to gaining admission to the commanderie—and reveal a previously unnoticed compassion among the Templars. Regardless, after an arduous journey, they were almost there and, blood or no blood, either Philip was going to find healing in the Templar commanderie, or David was going to die trying to get it for him.

  “I don’t want them to know who I am,” Philip said.

  That suited David just fine. “We don’t have to tell them who you are. In fact, I was hoping we wouldn’t have to.”

  “What makes you think they’ll let you in?” Philip said, in a last ditch effort to change David’s mind. “We have little money and no authority. These are warrior-monks, not mendicants. They don’t give sanctuary t
o just anyone.”

  “They will give it to me,” David said, “whether or not they know I am the Duke of Aquitaine.”

  Although Philip looked at David warily, for once he didn’t argue or ask for clarification, and David didn’t give it. If the password didn’t work, David would look like a fool, but he’d rather not share more than he had to with Philip. For all the amiableness of their conversations, David had come to see that the French king lived up to his historical reputation. He was hard and ambitious and, quite frankly, not to be trusted in the long run to look out for anyone’s interests but his own—even if in the short run his and David’s aims aligned.

  In fact, Philip reminded David of Humphrey de Bohun when he’d first met him. In those days, Humphrey had cared only for his own interests and would do anything to further them. He’d changed in the last few years since David had become King of England, almost as if the sharp edges, which the dog-eat-dog world of the March required in order for him to survive, had been worn down and softened, revealing a more vulnerable man beneath—a man he’d spent his adult life trying to hide. David’s mother had assured David it was there, because she’d seen it. A few years of David’s honesty and justice had been required to convince Humphrey that it was safe to show it again.

  Which explained completely why David had worked so hard to keep Philip alive when it would have been far wiser and certainly expedient to eliminate him from the equation. And it also explained why David had all but ignored Clare’s dubious past: until the day any of these men proved himself false, David felt it was necessary to accept him for the man he appeared to be.

  In the coming weeks and months, many of David’s barons and advisers were going to argue that he should have recognized Clare’s duplicitous nature long ago, and that he had been naïve and stupid. Maybe they were right. If David lived to return to England, lots of people were going to be telling him I told you so. But even with the circumstances in which he now found himself, he could do no less for Philip than he’d done for Bohun or Clare.