Masters of Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  But sleeping had delayed their arrival at Le Havre from the morning to early afternoon. David took the lead, allowing the horse to pick his way the last hundred yards to the town. Every motion of the horse had David’s muscles screaming at high volume. If he never sat on a horse again it would be too soon.

  “Perhaps a boat is sailing with the evening tide,” Henri said. While with the loss of the Holy Land, many Templar ships had docked in Cyprus and La Rochelle, some were stationed here, at Le Havre in Normandy.

  David could see the fleet in question, and he prayed that the pass from Pierre de Villiers, which had stood them in good stead for two days, would do its job one more time.

  “The commanderie is there.” Henri gestured to a complex of buildings along the Seine River, which flowed to the south of the town into the English Channel.

  David had learned a single factoid about Le Havre from his middle school history textbook, which, though woefully incomplete, had spent a lot of time on World War II. It had told him that Le Havre had been entirely destroyed by the British during the war. This Le Havre had an expansive port on the mouth of the Seine. It hadn’t been built with United States reconstruction dollars but by the Templars, who, from the looks, basically claimed all of it. Their commanderie took up a football field of space, with a high stone wall around the whole of it, just as at La Rochelle.

  “Come, Henri.” David directed his horse towards the front gate. “God shall be my hope, my stay, my guide and lantern to my feet.” Now that he was in France, he was feeling something of an affinity for Henry V.

  In that instant, however, a rider dressed as a Templar sergeant raced past them heading for the commanderie too. He threw himself from his horse and began beating on the door. “I bring news that is urgent! Open!”

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Henri said, inadvertently coming up with a famous quote of his own. “Somehow, I think we know what his news is.”

  By the time they arrived at the door and dismounted, the rider was leading his horse inside. David held up his pass and, as had been the case thirty times before, he and Henri were admitted too.

  This gatekeeper was younger than twenty, tall and thin, wearing sergeant’s colors. Though the rider who’d come was practically dancing with impatience to speak to someone in authority, David and Henri, in their white garb, outranked him, and the gatekeeper turned to David first.

  “How may this commanderie be of service to La Rochelle?”

  David gestured to the rider. “I defer my business to the boy, provided I may witness his speech to your master.” He really shouldn’t be calling the young sergeant a boy, since David was hardly older himself at twenty-four, but he felt he’d aged twenty years in the last two days. His entire body felt drawn and gray from too much riding and too little food and rest. And then there was his wounded ribs, which at times during the ride had pained him so much he could hardly breathe.

  The rider frowned. “Why?” And then he swallowed hard and ducked his head. “Why would you ask for that, sir knight?”

  “Because your news is obviously of the highest importance, and I want to know what it is,” David said. “I have news of my own that will interest your master, and I suspect that it is related to yours.”

  The gatekeeper bowed and gestured that they should enter the inner recesses of the commanderie. “If you will follow me.”

  The master of Le Havre was a middle-aged man by the name of Hugh de Lusignan. Unlike Pierre, Hugh did not receive them in his office but in the center of a sandy ring where a dozen men, stripped to the waist, were fighting each other in mock battles. It was a good reminder: these men were monks, but they were warriors too.

  Hugh finished his fight by upending his opponent and fake jabbing a blunt sword into his throat. Then he straightened and spied the gatekeeper, who gestured that he should come over.

  “What is it?” He looked the four of them up and down, eyebrows raised at the sight they presented. Henri and David, while dressed as knights, were three hundred and twenty miles worse for wear, mud-spattered, sweaty, and exhausted. The sergeant, who’d ridden in before them, didn’t look much better. For his part, Hugh’s muscled torso glistened with sweat and would have done a Greek god proud.

  “Sergeant Jean has come with grave news that cannot wait.” The gatekeeper pointed with his chin to the young rider.

  “The King of France is dead!” Jean had been dying to share his news, and he couldn’t wait a moment longer. “The Duke of Aquitaine is dead too, ambushed by men serving Gilbert de Clare.”

  Henri and David exchanged a significant glance. It was as David had guessed: the people of France were to be told that Clare had arranged for the assassination, while the people of England and Aquitaine would be told that the culprit was Charles, Philip’s brother. Clare and Charles would cover themselves in patriotic glory and go to war against each other, sacrificing men in a few battles or skirmishes before arranging a truce.

  Hugh’s hair was receding from his forehead, and he wiped at the shiny pate with a cloth. “You say truly? How is it you learned of this?”

  “Word reached Paris two days ago, and I set out immediately to inform our commanderies throughout France.”

  “Where is Clare now?” Hugh said.

  “We don’t know. Our master was hoping that you might have received word of him from Temple Church in London.”

  Hugh gave a noncommittal grunt and rubbed his chin without answering. As the crow flies, Temple Church in London was one hundred and thirty-five miles from Le Havre. A homing pigeon could easily fly forty to fifty miles in an hour, so if there was something happening in London, Hugh really might have heard about it by now. Unfortunately, that meant Clare might have too, but the thought was so sickening to David that he immediately put it aside. It wouldn’t do to dwell on or worry about things that he couldn’t change.

  David felt it was time to speak. “The sergeant’s news is not entirely accurate.”

  Hugh looked at him. “And you are?”

  “My name is not important.” David showed Hugh the pass Pierre had given him. “Pierre de Villiers has sent us to say that neither King Philip nor King David is dead. We ask your assistance in bringing this news to London.”

  Jean was looking extremely put out that his news had been trumped by David’s. “But—”

  Hugh cut him off. “How do you come by this information?”

  “I have seen both men alive with my own eyes, well after their reported deaths. King Philip was wounded in the assassination attempt and has found sanctuary in a place he can heal. Even now, King David makes for England under duress.”

  Henri stirred beside David, but he didn’t speak. He was a smart man and even now might be reconsidering his assumptions about David’s identity. David had arrived at the commanderie at La Rochelle with a wounded man who was indeed now in a place of sanctuary. Another minute and Henri was going to put two and two together. Truthfully, it would be a relief if he did.

  “I have heard similar news, sent from our Templar brethren in London.”

  David stared at him, astonished. “How could they possibly know?”

  “Master Windsor did not choose to impart that information. Suffice to say, I was asked to offer every courtesy to King David, were he to cross my path.”

  Henri took a step forward. “Master, King David stands before you. We apologize for the deception, but it was necessary to ensure the king’s safety.” He had figured it out, but he had such control, as befitted a Templar knight, that nothing about his stance or expression showed surprise or anger, and he spoke matter-of-factly.

  For his part, David gazed steadily at Hugh, trying to be as unemotional as Henri. His identity hadn’t been Henri’s secret to tell, but presumably now he and Henri would, in fact, receive every courtesy.

  “You are dressed as a Templar,” Hugh said.

  David almost laughed, totally unsurprised that Hugh’s objection to the deception was his use of Templar clothing and
gear. Instead of laughing, however, he answered Hugh in a grave voice. “I am King of England, anointed by God to rule. I have sworn oaths, just as binding and sacred as yours. Thus, Pierre de Villiers deemed me worthy of wearing your colors.”

  Hugh gave a little huh sound. “He knew who you are, my lord?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why did he send you to Le Havre?”

  “We hoped by riding I could make London more quickly than by sailing directly from La Rochelle.”

  Hugh looked at him warily. “When did you leave La Rochelle?”

  “The afternoon of the fourteenth,” Henri said—and then he grinned at Hugh’s astonished look.

  Hugh barked a laugh. “Master Villiers wasn’t wrong. The winds turned favorable this morning. If you’d sailed from La Rochelle, it would have taken you at least five days to reach England. I have a ship sailing for Portsmouth within the hour. It’s far closer than Dover, and the Portsmouth master, a man named John Fitztosny, can see you safely to Temple Church in London.”

  David really wanted to go to Hythe—though he would have taken Dover in a pinch. He knew people in those places. Perhaps some of his men had recovered from their sickness by now and could aid him. By contrast, even having reached England, from Portsmouth he would have to continue to pretend to be a Templar.

  “That would please my lord.” Henri put his heels together and bowed. “Thank you.”

  “My men will see to your preparations.” Hugh snapped his fingers at several of the battling sergeants, who ceased fighting and came over. They nodded at the instructions Hugh gave them about arranging an escort for David and Henri to the ship. Then he turned back to David. “Have you dined?”

  David gestured to indicate himself and Henri. “We have ridden nonstop for two days. I reek of horse and sweat and am covered in mud. I wouldn’t want to disgrace your table.”

  “Such is the life of a warrior—and a king,” Hugh said. “It would be no disgrace, my lord. Still, we have little time and perhaps it is best to supply you with provisions, and you can eat at your leisure on the ship.”

  That sounded like a better plan to David too. Within fifteen minutes, he and Henri were mounted again. They were about to ride out of the castle amidst three Templar sergeants, having said goodbye and thanks to Hugh, when a messenger came racing out of the main hall. “A pigeon has brought more news!”

  Hugh held out his hand for the tiny piece of paper, unrolled it to read briefly, and then passed it to David, who leaned down to take it. The message consisted of fourteen words: War with France imminent. Clare seeks throne. If news from King David, please advise.

  “So it begins.” Hugh took back the paper from David. “I will send a pigeon to Master Windsor to tell him that you are alive and pray for a swift journey for you.” And then he actually smiled. “By God, I wish I could come with you just to see Clare’s face when you stand before him, alive and whole.”

  David found himself unbearably angry to be so far behind Clare still, even with all the work to reach this point, but he managed a smile and a question, “Do you and Clare have a history?”

  “I knew his first wife well. I crusaded with her brother.”

  Clare and his first wife, Alice de Lusignan, had separated many years ago. She was rumored to have been King Edward’s mistress, and there was a great deal of controversy about their divorce and talk about how badly she’d been treated by Clare. In his defense, he’d been only ten years old when they’d married.

  David gathered the reins. “We reap what we sow, Hugh. I will attend to him.”

  Hugh stepped back. “Godspeed.”

  Once they reached the dock, David headed up the gangplank to board the ship, which was terrifyingly small by modern standards. He turned back, however, when he realized Henri hadn’t followed and was hesitating at the far end of the gangway.

  David walked back down to stand in front of him. “You don’t have to come with me. If you owed your master anything, that debt was fulfilled by accompanying me to Le Havre. Your place is in France. I understand if you feel betrayed by my deception.”

  Henri scoffed. “Betrayed? I was a fool for not seeing sooner.” He shook his head. “I understand the deception.”

  “Then what is wrong?”

  “I am seeing the journey through new eyes.” He gestured helplessly to the ship. “You have suffered here in Aquitaine. Nothing that has passed has been fit for a king. And yet, you have accepted all without complaint or remark.”

  It wasn’t really a question, but David answered as if it had been. “I’ve found some freedom in anonymity. You and I became friends, if you don’t mind me saying so, without having my title come between us.”

  “Oui. It has been an honor.” Henri seemed to have decided something because he started up the gangway with determination. “My place is at your side, and I desire to see how this ends.”

  “Hopefully not in our deaths,” David said. “It may be that every port and castle in England is now held against me.”

  “Surely you don’t believe all your barons to be as fickle as Clare?”

  David looked down at his feet for a moment. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “I do not know England as well as you do,” Henri said, “but we have heard things in La Rochelle. You have brought order and prosperity to your country. You have quelled the bickering among your barons. You are King Arthur returned. It seems to me that if your people knew how little faith you had in them, they would be most disappointed in you rather than the other way around.”

  David smiled to himself at being chastised by the Frenchman and followed Henri onto the ship. Speaking truth like this was the Templar way. “You are right that one betrayer does not an insurrection make, and if Clare is telling everyone that I am dead, as it seems he is, then my sudden resurrection will be welcomed by many. At the same time, we shouldn’t underestimate Clare’s power and reach. To pull this off, he will have been bribing men for months, if not years. He also knows the names of many members of the Order of the Pendragon, and thus the lives of every one of them could be forfeit.”

  Henri’s mouth turned down. “This Order of the Pendragon, I have heard of them too—they are crusaders as well?”

  “No. Their goal is to protect me.”

  “Hmm.” Henri scratched his forehead. “Perhaps I’ve misunderstood, but I don’t think they’ve been doing a very good job.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  16 June 2021

  Christopher

  Jon was one of those friends who couldn’t think on an empty stomach. Christopher had to feed him every two hours, or he started getting grumpy. Thus, since he hadn’t yet come up with a viable plan of what to do next, Christopher took everyone to Aristotle’s Diner. He figured it would be what his mom called a cultural experience for Gwenllian and Arthur and would have the added benefit of feeding everyone because the menu was huge and varied.

  “Start at the beginning,” Jon said. “I need to hear it again.”

  So Christopher told him—all about Meg disappearing long before he was born; and then about David and Anna; the visit from David when Christopher was ten; and then what happened last Christmas when he and his family had met David’s family in Wales. All the while, Gwenllian and Jon ate like they were never going to have another meal. Arthur still wasn’t talking, but he laid into his chocolate-chip whipped-cream-covered pancakes anyway.

  Christopher himself was having a hard time eating anything. His bacon omelet suddenly looked unappetizing, and he pushed it towards Jon, who’d been eyeing it for the last five minutes, having finished up his own plate. Christopher’s throat was dry from all the talking, so he took a sip of milk. Then his phone rang.

  Hoping it was his dad, he pulled it from his pocket, only to find that the call was from a number he didn’t recognize. He stared at it, hesitating.

  “Aren’t you going to answer it?” Jon said.

  “It’s probably a telemarketer.”

  Jo
n nodded, but then his jaw dropped as another thought struck him. “What if it’s the CIA? Dude, you should have ditched the phone first thing. You’re on the grid!”

  “If I did that, my parents couldn’t call me back.” Deciding he might as well answer and find out how badly he’d screwed up, Christopher pressed talk and put the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

  “Is this Christopher Shepherd?”

  The man spoke with an English accent, which at least suggested he wasn’t CIA. “Yes.” Christopher didn’t see any point in denying it.

  “This is Mark Jones, MI-5. We met last year in Caernarfon.”

  “Hi.” It was a lame response, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Your GPS says you’re at something called Aristotle’s Diner in Radnor, Pennsylvania. Is that accurate?”

  “Wha—how did you know?”

  Mark tsked through his teeth, and in retrospect Christopher shouldn’t even have asked the question because the answer was obvious. Mark was MI-5, and in keeping his phone, Christopher had ensured that he remained on the grid.

  “Is-is-are we—” Christopher stuttered, “—how much trouble are we in?”

  “Thank God you said we.” Mark blew out a breath on the other end of the line. “This is a secure connection, if you’re worried. Tell me—there was a flash not far from where you are. Who is we—did someone come—who are you with?” Mark also seemed to be stumbling over his words in his need to get them out.

  “It’s Arthur and Gwenllian,” Christopher said, knowing he wouldn’t have to explain to Mark who they were.

  There was a pause before Mark spoke again, and now his voice sounded wary. “Just Arthur and Gwenllian?”

  “Yeah. They jumped out of a window at Westminster Castle because Gilbert de Clare told them that David was murdered during a meeting with the King of France, but then Clare decided to take the throne instead of making Arthur king and—”