Masters of Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  “I can’t argue with that,” David said, glad to have found a point of agreement. “I gather Boniface can?”

  “And has.”

  The two men were speaking more companionably than David would have thought possible twenty minutes ago. Or ever. But then David noticed that Pierre was fingering the papers on the desk in front of him in a way that made David think he had something else to say. “If there is more, please tell me.”

  “You yourself met this spring with our new grand master, did you not?”

  “I did,” David said. Jacques de Molay was the same grand master of the Templars whom Philip would murder in 1307. He wasn’t to be confused with Jacques de Molier, the fat French emissary Philip had sent to David last Christmas. Duplication of names wasn’t just a Welsh headache. “He wanted my support for the crusade. He seemed very enthusiastic and happy that Boniface had openly called for one.”

  “He is,” Pierre said. “His first objective, however, must be to fortify Cyprus. Only when the island is secure can we use it as a base to launch our attack on the Mamluks. Until it is refortified, any attempt to retake Jerusalem will end in failure. Boniface wants us to attack now, to gain a beachhead at Acre, perhaps—and that success will then force you and Philip to lend your support. It is my understanding that Clare has promised Boniface that he will devote huge resources to the endeavor.”

  “In exchange for what?” David said.

  Pierre shrugged in a very French way. “In light of recent events, Clare might have asked for the throne of England, were anything to happen to you. Perhaps he seeks to rule in the Holy Land itself. Were we to wrest Jerusalem from Muslim hands, it would need a Christian king.”

  “Clare wants that crown too?” David barked a laugh. “He has a plan for everything.”

  “Except for your survival,” Pierre said. “He didn’t count on that.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  14 June 1293

  David

  “Master, Sir Beloit, the steward of Vauclair, has come, requesting an audience.” Henri’s deep voice spoke urgently from behind the door, which he did not open.

  Pierre raised his eyebrows at David. “Will Beloit know you by sight?”

  “No,” David said. “And I do not know where his loyalties lie. It is possible he is in league with Clare.”

  “I have always found Beloit a fair-minded man,” Pierre said doubtfully. “He might be overjoyed to know that the news Clare’s men brought is false and that you are alive.”

  “If Clare has taught me anything these last two days, it is that I trust too easily. Bad enough that we were spotted fleeing into your commanderie. In the last hour, Beloit could already have sent a boat to England to inform Clare that I am alive. Without the protection of men loyal to me, I am vulnerable to a knife between the ribs anywhere between here and London.”

  Pierre pushed to his feet and came around the desk, only to pause in front of David, who’d also risen. “You would prefer that your people believe you dead?” He said this in the form of a question, but it was really a censure.

  “I’m still hoping I can beat the news home. But if I can’t, until I can stand before Parliament in Westminster Hall, and they can see that I am truly alive, I don’t see the benefit of a premature resurrection.”

  “But your wife—”

  “I know.” David cut him off, sickened at the thought of Lili’s grief, as he had been for two days. “But if Clare learns that I am alive, do you think he would be more or less likely to murder her and my sons? He just tried to murder me. What would they be to him but a few more casualties on the way to the throne?”

  “You are stronger than I had been led to believe. We here thought you’d traded some of your power to your barons out of a need of their favor, but that isn’t what you’ve done, is it?” Pierre paused with a hand on the latch. “As is written in our charter, a strong man has no need to prove his strength. The next time someone questions your actions or your character, I will remember that you also adhere to the Templar way.”

  David still didn’t feel like he’d done anything special, except to keep doing what he thought was right even when other people didn’t understand or approve of it. Even before he became Prince of Wales, he’d been raised to make his own decisions. He’d found that following a moral code with clear boundaries, ones which he would never cross even when tested, made the rest of his life easier, not harder. He suspected that a Templar like Pierre understood that idea perfectly.

  Pierre pulled open the door, surprising Henri, who’d been preparing to knock again. “What is the status of our patient?”

  “If he survives the fever, he will live. If his wound suppurates, he may die,” Henri said matter-of-factly. “His life is in God’s hands.”

  “As are ours,” Pierre said in a manner that sounded reflexive and automatic. He was a monk, after all.

  David stepped closer. “If his wound goes bad, how many days does he have to live before his death is inevitable?”

  Henri looked at Pierre, but the Templar master canted his head to indicate that Henri should answer. The younger man grimaced. “Though I am not a healer, I would say that with a wound like that he could last as short a time as five days or for as long as a few weeks.”

  It was as David feared. If he could get to England, he could send Abraham or Rachel to France in time to save Philip. It was equally likely that Philip’s fate would be decided before then, but it was worth a shot.

  “Thank you, Henri,” Pierre said. “Please put Beloit in the reception room and tell him I will be right there.”

  Henri nodded and departed, leaving Pierre and David alone, both still standing near the open door.

  “Beloit thinks you are harboring my murderer,” David said. “What are you going to do about that?”

  Pierre’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Perhaps a small sleight of hand is in order. We have one or two prison cells here. I will arrange for the temporary incarceration of two of my men, one apparently injured, and see to it that they look like you and King Philip.

  “I take it as given that he will be safe here too?”

  “Yes.”

  “How quickly can you get me to England, specifically to the port of Hythe?”

  “Four days by ship, if the winds are fair,” Pierre said.

  “Four days.” David ran his hands through his hair, and for a moment despair overtook him. While David had built a radio network with coverage from Dover to Caerphilly, he hadn’t yet built the Chunnel.

  “It is the same four days it will take for Clare to hear of your death,” Pierre said.

  “No.” David shook his head. “Not quite. His men shot us near midnight on June 12th, and here it is the afternoon of the 14th already. If he sent word immediately, he has a two-day head start.”

  David chose not to complicate the issue by mentioning the string of radio stations he’d built across southern England, which would allow Clare’s men, once they reached Dover, to relay the news of David’s death to London instantly. Once he himself arrived, David could use the stations too, if they weren’t held against him, which he had to think they would be. In six months, he’d made long strides towards duplicating the modern world’s preoccupation with the speed at which information could be disseminated.

  David laughed under his breath. Maybe that was going to turn out to be a mistake, on top of all the other ones he’d made, and he’d made many.

  Pierre studied David for a moment. “If you are serious about getting home faster, you can get there yourself in three days: two of riding and one more of sailing, with a favorable wind from the south, but it will not be easy.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “The Templars have established stations every ten miles or so along every major road through France, including from here to Le Havre. With a pass from me, you can ride as fast as the horses will take you, trading a worn horse for a fresh one every ten miles, which is how far one of our horses can gallop before tiring. The o
nly barrier to how long your journey will take is your ability to keep going.”

  “How many miles is it to Le Havre?”

  “Three hundred and twenty.”

  David gaped at him. “That’s thirty-two changes of horse!”

  “If you feel it’s impossible—”

  “I didn’t say that. Has it been done before?”

  “No.”

  David would have laughed again at the absurdity of what Pierre was suggesting if it didn’t hurt to laugh and he himself wasn’t taking it seriously. In the late eighteen-hundreds in the United States, the pony express sent mail nineteen hundred miles across the west in ten days, though with no one man riding more than a hundred miles. That was only eight miles an hour. With enough fresh horses, three hundred and twenty miles could be done in two days with eight hours to spare.

  He scratched the top of his head as he thought. “Okay. I will be traveling through territories controlled by many lords between here and there. They won’t stop me?”

  “We have arranged unrestricted passage for our people, no matter their mission, through every baron’s territory between here and Calais. If you dress as one of us, you will be viewed as one of us. Some might say I violate my own vows by suggesting such a deception, but—” Pierre tipped his head to study David, “—are we not called to crusade together? Do not our interests and England’s align, even in the face of the pope’s obstinacy? If you do not make England and stop Clare, it might be the end of the Templars.”

  “You can’t be helping me because of the crusade,” David said. “As it stands now, I won’t be going.”

  Pierre lifted one shoulder. “One never can fully foresee the paths down which God will lead a man.”

  David allowed himself an actual laugh, genuinely amused. “No, one cannot.”

  Then Pierre frowned. “If Clare has been planning your death for many months, then surely he has also taken steps in England to ensure his ultimate victory there. What can you do alone?”

  “Just get me to Hythe. After that, I won’t be alone,” David said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  14 June 1293

  Callum

  Callum came out of the hall and, ignoring the rain that had started to fall again, waved a hand to gather his men to him. Only a few scuff marks on the stones and a fallen lance indicated what had gone on in the courtyard earlier that day. “This is a long way from over, gentlemen.”

  Peter had been conferring with several of his men near the gatehouse. He made an agreeing motion with his head and approached. “Jeffries told me what Valles said. This is exactly what Lili said would happen. She was right about Clare’s betrayal. Could she be right that David’s alive and on the run in Aquitaine?”

  “I want to believe so,” Callum said. “Cassie believes so. One of Valles’s men must know something more about David’s death. Clare received the news by pigeon, and I want to know exactly what the message said.”

  “Yes, sir.” He headed off to the barracks where Valles’s men were being kept.

  Then one of the guards standing on the battlement above the gatehouse waved a hand. “Riders approach!”

  Since the incident with Valles, Jeffries had glued himself to Callum’s right shoulder. “Not again!”

  The two men crossed to the northern gatehouse, Jeffries matching Callum stride for stride, reminding Callum of the first time they’d conspired together, back in Cardiff before the bombing. That day they’d been loping across a city street fleeing MI-5 surveillance. The danger they’d been in had concerned them plenty at the time. In retrospect, it was nothing compared to what faced them now.

  As they turned underneath the gatehouse, they were met by another guardsman. “Seven riders, my lord. They wear the Bohun crest.”

  The portcullis was down, but the wooden gate behind it had been left open, allowing them to see through the iron bars to the riders, who halted before the gate. The lead rider’s horse danced sideways, and then the rider himself pulled off his helmet, revealing a red-faced and sweaty Humphrey de Bohun.

  At the sight of Callum, Bohun dismounted and came to stand before the portcullis, one hand clutching the bars. “You know about David’s death?” he said without preamble.

  “One Robert de Valles, a captain of Clare’s, brought the news.” Callum strode forward to meet him. “We have information that suggests David is still alive, however.”

  “You tell me true?”

  “First, what brings you to Shrewsbury?” Callum said.

  “You, of course.” Bohun left unsaid, what else, you fool, which seemed to have been on the tip of his tongue.

  “Why me?”

  “Because I can’t trust anyone else.” Bohun snorted. “Are you going to let me in, or shall we really have this discussion at the gate?”

  “Your pardon.” Callum had needed to be sure of Bohun’s loyalty, but his bald assertion of trust coupled with the snide comment were all the confirmation Callum needed. “We’ve had a bit of trouble here.”

  The guard ratcheted up the portcullis to admit Bohun’s men, who filed into the courtyard, though Bohun himself stopped in front of Callum, who remained in the shelter of the gatehouse.

  “Where were you when you got word?” Callum said.

  “I was conferring with Mortimer at my castle at Hereford, wasn’t I? We had warning that Clare was up to his old tricks, and then my scouts reported that a company of his men was racing for Hereford. Mortimer took our wives and children into Wales, and I came here.” Edmund Mortimer’s wife, Margaret, and Bohun’s wife, Maud, were cousins, so they were often in company. It wasn’t surprising that they’d chosen this week to visit one another—just lucky.

  “Clare caught you on the hop.” Bohun sounded very satisfied that he and Mortimer had not been.

  “What do you know about what happened in Aquitaine?” Callum said. “Did Lili send a messenger to you too?”

  “Queen Lili?” Bohun looked puzzled. “No.”

  “Then how did you hear of David’s death?” Callum said.

  Bohun looked slightly offended. “I have a man at the Winchester relay, who radioed me as soon as Clare told his people of David’s death and that he would be assuming the regency.”

  Jeffries gave him a stricken look. “You have a man—”

  Bohun cut him off with a gesture. “You would have been relying on the king’s network, of course, which Clare shut down this morning, starting with the stations in London, to any messages but those he sent himself. I’m sure he wanted to make sure no word reached us before his men did.”

  Callum cursed under his breath. The centrality of the stations, which had seemed a strength, was proving now to be a weakness. If David wanted to get word to his father or Callum that he was alive, he would have to either take all the stations back or send a rider, just as Bridget and Peter had ridden from London. Should Callum choose to do so, he could still talk to the few lords who had access to the two-way communication system: Llywelyn in Caerphilly, Math at Dinas Bran, and Ieuan at Buellt, but the transmissions wouldn’t be private. Other lords farther east into England had radios too, but Callum didn’t know who to trust.

  “You have your own spy network?” Jeffries sounded impressed.

  “I have always intended to survive, come what may, and I am not pleased to learn that Clare has made this play for power.” As he said the word not, Bohun clenched his fist and slapped it into his other palm. Since Bohun himself had made a bid for the throne once, through his eldest son, William, who was to have married one of King Edward’s daughters, it was a little rich of him to complain about Clare having a similar idea.

  Cassie and Peter approached, followed by two members of Shrewsbury’s garrison. They held between them one of Clare’s soldiers, a man of about thirty, stocky and muscled, as befitted his profession. His hands were tied behind his back for security’s sake.

  Callum’s eyes went first to his wife. “What is it, Cassie?”

  “Gwenllian is in danger t
oo. I just spoke with King Llywelyn. She has been staying at Westminster with Lili for the past several months.”

  That four members of the royal family were in danger was hardly different than three, but that three of them were children made Clare’s actions even more appalling.

  Cassie tipped her chin to point at Bohun. “Ieuan reports that your family crossed the border safely and has reached Buellt Castle. Mortimer intends to return to Montgomery to begin preparing his resistance. He hopes to coordinate with us.”

  Bohun let out a sigh. “Thank you.”

  Cassie continued, “Llywelyn is marshalling his forces as we speak, but he is wary of Clare’s defenses and reach. Clare’s stronghold is at Gloucester, fifteen miles from the border—hardly more than the distance from here to Wales. Rather than wait for him to attack, Llywelyn proposes a pre-emptive strike.”

  “On Gloucester?” Bohun said. “That’s bold.”

  “And on David’s castle at Chester, if it has fallen to Clare.” Cassie tipped her head. “Our alternative is to wait and be picked off one by one, as Clare has already tried to do. By acting first, we could control the whole of the March from Chester to the Severn Strait.”

  “We would be a wall of resistance to Clare’s rule.” Bohun sounded slightly awed.

  “With Clare occupied with consolidating his power and a possible war with France, he won’t have the resources to counter us if we remain united,” Cassie said.

  “The people of the March have always supported David,” Callum said. “They will stand against Clare if we ask them to.”

  “You propose we make a Kingdom of the March?” Bohun rubbed his hands, glee in his eyes. His own private kingdom was what he’d always wanted.

  Cassie shook her head. “No, Humphrey. Not a kingdom. A chance to give the people a say over who rules them. Hasn’t that always been David’s vision?”

  Callum grinned. “You want real democracy.”

  “But with David’s death—” Cassie broke off, her amusement gone in an instant, and tears pricking at her eyes.