Masters of Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  “I guess we’ll find out,” Carew said.

  Chapter Thirty

  17 June 2021

  Christopher

  Jon had come at six in the morning, fed the animals, and left with a wave. “Stay here. Everything’s good. I’ll be back in a few hours, and we’ll figure out what to do next.”

  But he hadn’t come back in a few hours, and by eleven, Christopher had been pacing for quite some time, trying not to show his anxiety to Gwenllian and Arthur. He’d spoken with his father again, but neither of them had any better ideas about where to go or what to do. Christopher felt humiliated by his indecisiveness and was sure that David would have done way better.

  His father had parted with the FBI agents on good terms last night. He hadn’t been able to find a flight to the east coast until this morning, and it had left California three hours ago heading east. But it would be hours still before he would land in Philadelphia. Christopher had never felt so alone, which had to be only a fraction of what Gwenllian and Arthur had been feeling since they arrived in the twenty-first century.

  Since both Christopher and his father assumed that the only reason the FBI had let him go so easily was because they figured he’d lead them to Christopher, it wasn’t as if he could meet his dad at the airport either. His dad didn’t believe the FBI wanted to do more than question Christopher about the fake Jim Jensen, and Christopher could totally understand why they wanted to do that. But, impossible as it sounded, Christopher had bigger concerns than the impersonation of an FBI agent.

  “What are we going to do?” Gwenllian finally asked the question that she’d probably wanted to ask hours ago, but hadn’t out of politeness.

  Before Christopher could answer, Jon slipped through the back door, a finger to his lips and a gun in his other hand. Christopher opened his mouth to ask what the hell he was doing, but Jon motioned for them to get down below the level of the counters.

  Christopher obeyed, knowing that Jon wouldn’t be here with a gun unless it was serious. Bent double, he hustled over to him. “What’s going on? And why the gun?”

  “I thought we might need it, you know, in case the bad guys showed up again.”

  “Whose gun is it?” Christopher felt his voice rising, and he tried to calm himself down.

  “My dad’s.”

  “Who are we hiding from?”

  Jon lifted his chin to look out the front windows. “Everyone.”

  “That is not helpful.”

  “Mark Jones called me, looking for you. He’s been talking to the FBI on and off all night. Mark’s number was the last one Jim Jenson called, and they want to know why.”

  “Yeah, I know. They’ve been talking to my dad too. What did Mark tell them?”

  “That he’d arranged for you to speak to Jenson because of what happened in Wales last year. He had a few more questions to wind things up, and Jim agreed to liaison between you and MI-5.”

  “That really makes no sense,” Christopher said.

  “Apparently the FBI men didn’t think so either. Mark is actually way less worried about the FBI than whoever is after you. He’s really worried that whoever this is was able to connect you to Jim Jenson so quickly.”

  “So am I! Why do you think we’ve been hiding here all night? Who does Mark think the fake agent works for?”

  Jon’s eyes were flicking around the kitchen as if a man in black was going to pop out of one of the cupboards at any moment. “One of those private security corporations that has been hunting David for years. Back when he and Anna went to Wales in 2010, things were different, but now everybody and his mother has a satellite. Anyone could have seen the flash when Gwenllian and Arthur arrived.” He talked matter-of-factly, like he’d been in on the secret for years, even though it had to still feel weird to him. “They must have hooked into your phone the moment Mark called you, which may even mean that he has a mole in MI-5.”

  “Not just anyone would attack an FBI agent to get to us,” Christopher said.

  Jon shrugged. “And then there’s the fact that I saw a black SUV go by our house, heading for here.”

  Christopher gaped at his friend. “You could have said that first thing when you came in!” He was glad he’d moved his car onto a dirt road that went through the woods on its way to the main road. The track wasn’t wide enough for any car bigger than his. If he had to go down it fast he might bottom out the undercarriage, but it would allow them a quicker getaway if they needed it.

  “Someone’s here.” Gwenllian had been peering through a front window of the guesthouse. Christopher and Jon ran over to look with her in time to see a black SUV pull into the driveway and park in front of the house.

  “How did they know where we were?” Christopher turned to Jon. “Did your dad call them?”

  “No. I swear it,” he said. “Last night when I got home, I told him you’d calmed down after a while. He wasn’t mad or anything. He’s worried about you.”

  “You tried to tell him about us, but he didn’t believe you,” Gwenllian said, still peering out the window. “People are getting out.”

  “What do we do?” Jon said.

  Christopher put his hand on the top of the gun, which Jon had been waving around to emphasize his sentences. “We put that away right now.” Without waiting for Jon’s consent, he took it from him, walked into the bathroom, and hid the gun inside a stack of towels under the sink. By the time he came out, two agents—one male and one female, both in suits—had exited the SUV. Neither of them was the fake Jim Jenson.

  “Hide!” Christopher waited for Arthur and Gwenllian to run down the hallway to their room, and then he walked to the door and opened it. His hands in the air, he called as loudly as he could. “I’m Christopher Shepherd. I’m coming out!”

  Walking out of the house to face two possibly fake FBI agents was probably the most terrifying thing he had ever done. In fact, his heart was pounding so fast he seriously wondered if it would gallop right out of his chest.

  The man in the suit dropped his hand from where it had been resting on his gun in its holster, the universal position for cops when they were wary, and beckoned to Christopher. “Come on out, son.”

  Christopher walked down the path towards the driveway, and then Jon appeared behind him. Having his friend with him gave Christopher a bit more courage, though maybe they were both being totally stupid because if these two agents were fake, they might shovel them into their SUV and drive away, which would leave Arthur and Gwenllian on their own.

  Too late now.

  “We just want to ask you some questions. I’m Agent Hightower and this is Agent O’Conner.” The man showed his FBI badge, which he would have done even if he wasn’t a real agent. Christopher knew from the TV shows he watched that real FBI seals were made of solid metal, not aluminum. How much effort they put into the badges depended on how far these guys were willing to go to deceive him. Then again, the fake Jim had gone pretty far.

  “How about you come with us.” That was the female agent, O’Conner, who’d brought out her badge too, and her question wasn’t a question.

  “Can you just talk to me here?” Christopher said.

  “Downtown would be better,” Agent O’Conner said.

  “I’m not under arrest, though, am I? I don’t have to go.” Christopher had a sudden thought. “And hey, I’m not eighteen, so … I don’t think you have a right to question me at all.”

  Some kind of unspoken conversation went on between the two agents, because O’Conner shook her head. “Why don’t we go inside the house.” Again, it wasn’t a question.

  Arthur and Gwenllian were inside, but since the woman was already walking to the open door of the guesthouse, Christopher hustled after her. When they entered the living room, Arthur and Gwenllian weren’t to be seen.

  “Why don’t we all sit down,” Agent O’Conner said.

  Jon and Christopher perched on the edge of the yellow and white sectional sofa. Hightower sat in a chair opposite, and O�
�Conner remained standing. Christopher would have expected one of them to search the house, but neither did. Of course, they didn’t have a warrant.

  “Please talk us through what happened yesterday,” Agent Hightower said. “Why were you to meet with Jim Jenson?”

  “It has to do with stuff that happened over Christmas in the UK,” Christopher said, going with the story Jon had said Mark was telling. “The MI-5 agent, Mark Jones, just wanted to talk to me about it again, and since he couldn’t fly here himself, he sent Agent Jenson.”

  “Why wasn’t that a conversation you could have had over the phone?” Agent Hightower said.

  “Mark said it wasn’t the same as seeing someone’s face when they talked.” Christopher had made up that excuse on the spot, but from agents’ reactions, he was right on. Too much television watching was clearly paying off.

  “Why don’t you tell us what happened in the UK that Mark Jones was so worried about,” Agent O’Conner said from her place by the window. She’d paced around the whole room already in a manner that reminded Christopher of David.

  He was impatient with her questions that were really orders, but answered anyway. “I don’t know if I should. It has to do with MI-5.”

  Agent O’Conner scoffed. “We have clearance.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know that, do I?” Christopher said. “It was six months ago.”

  “Have you heard by now that the man who met you at Bryn Mawr was not our agent?” Hightower said.

  Christopher nodded. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know why anyone would want to impersonate him just to talk to me.” That was a total lie, of course, but it was dawning on Christopher that the FBI didn’t know about the flash or about Arthur and Gwenllian at all. They really didn’t know what Jim Jenson had been meeting them about. Either Jenson really didn’t remember, or he wasn’t talking.

  Agent O’Conner had been looking through the lacy curtain, and now she turned to her partner, frowning. “Did you request backup?”

  Hightower leapt to his feet and went out the door, which they’d left open. Christopher got up too and looked out the window. Another black SUV had pulled into the driveway. While he watched, three men in suits got out. They formed a triangle around Hightower as if he was a threat.

  O’Conner motioned that Christopher should move away from the window. She pulled a card from an inner pocket and handed it to him. “If something happens, call this number. They’ll see you safe.”

  “Who are those men?” Jon said.

  “I don’t know,” O’Conner said. “CIA maybe.”

  “I thought they couldn’t operate on U.S. soil?” Jon said.

  “They don’t. Usually.” She pulled out her phone and dialed. “Get in the kitchen.” Her eyes never left the window and what was happening outside, which at the moment was just talking.

  Christopher obeyed, but when he reached the island in the center, Jon wasn’t with him. “Come on!” He jerked his head to the back door. “We should get out of here!”

  “Better if I don’t. I can cover for you.” Jon rolled his eyes. “Man, I can’t believe I’m offering to dupe the CIA.”

  “Jon—” Christopher left his sentence hanging, unsure of what to say.

  “Dude, let me do this. You’re not the only one who can be a hero.”

  Then Gwenllian peered out of one of the cupboards in the island. “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know. Nobody seems to know.” He could hear O’Conner talking urgently into her phone, requesting backup. “We have to get out of here.”

  Arthur and Gwenllian spilled out onto the floor, and Christopher scooped up Arthur. He then pushed through the screen door at the back of the kitchen, Gwenllian on his heels. Maybe the CIA was just following up on intelligence and would be as benign as the FBI. He’d heard the whole story about David’s abduction in Cardiff, and how in the end the CIA and MI-5 had worked together with Callum, when he’d been named head of The Project.

  But that was years ago now, and who was to say that the same people were in charge? Probably they weren’t. That thought, more than anything else, had Christopher stumbling down the back steps of the guesthouse and racing for his car, just visible through the trees. He was so wound up, he hardly noticed the extra weight of Arthur in his arms. He shifted him so he could get his keys out of his pocket. If the car had been newer, Christopher could have started it remotely, but his car didn’t have that kind of technology.

  He and Gwenllian reached it at the same time, and they wrenched open their doors. As he sat, he plopped Arthur into her lap. Then he jammed the key into the ignition, swearing because the wheel had locked, and he had to wiggle it while turning the key to start the car. Finally, after two seconds, though it felt like ten years, the engine roared to life with a vroom. He shifted into first gear and hit the gas.

  Shouts came from the back of the house and sirens from the front, though he didn’t know what either might mean. Fifty yards down the track, the main road appeared ahead of him, somewhat downhill from his current position. He accelerated towards it, thinking only of where he was going to go and if he could get to his dad before anyone else did. Though, if fake Jim was the only one the private security company had sent to Bryn Mawr, its U.S. wing was a low-budget affair.

  The woods thinned out ten yards before the road, and Christopher looked to his left, hoping no car was coming so he could turn onto the road without stopping. Unfortunately, he had underestimated his speed. If he’d been driving on pavement, he might have had a chance to stop. But as it was, the road through the woods was muddy from yesterday’s rain and gave him no traction.

  Christopher tried. He slammed on the brake, but the car skidded the last few feet—right into the path of a fire truck barreling down the highway towards him.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  17 June 1293

  David

  David did not have a terrific plan for stopping Clare. His plan began and ended with entering Westminster Abbey before Clare’s crowning and revealing himself in such a way that nobody could deny that he was alive.

  Unfortunately for David, Archbishop Winchelsey and Pope Boniface seemed to have had a mind-meld at some point and talking to one was like talking to the other. He wasn’t surprised to learn that Winchelsey was all for a Clare dynasty. Under Clare’s rule, he certainly wasn’t going to be hearing about the rights of Jews and heretics. It was irksome, to say the least.

  “We should go first to Temple Church. Godfrid de Windsor can get you inside Westminster without Clare knowing who you are,” Thomas said. “The last thing we need is a Clare supporter recognizing you and putting a knife into your gut.”

  “Godfrid will already be at Westminster, preparing to witness the crowning of Clare,” David said. “I can’t take the chance that we will be delayed. I need to get inside before Lili broadcasts. Remember, we have no real proof of Clare’s wrongdoing—not in our possession anyway.”

  Thomas didn’t argue further, though his expression remained skeptical—and for good reason as it turned out.

  Though Westminster Castle was on the western edge of London, the streets surrounding it were full, and the mood of the people was ugly. If David hadn’t been trying to push through the crowd, it would have been gratifying to see how much the people missed him. David, Henri, and Thomas managed to navigate along side streets until they were within a hundred yards of the gates of Westminster Abbey, but then they had to push through those crowds too, which were even more densely packed. Some people were even hanging out of second-story windows while others stood atop carts to get a better view.

  The Westminster Abbey that lay before them now appeared much the same as it did in Avalon, but Westminster Castle in this world was totally different. In Avalon, the castle had burned (twice) before being replaced with a massive monument to the British Empire that was the seat of Parliament in the twenty-first century. The only similarity to this structure was that it lay in the same place, between the abbey and the T
hames River.

  All during David’s journey from La Rochelle, people had respected and feared him as a Templar. Typically, Londoners turned out to be the exception. Perhaps it was the anonymity of living among so many people, but even when people moved grudgingly aside to let David pass, they did so slowly and jostled his horse. The gate to the abbey slowly grew closer. Oddly, it was open, and the abbey grounds were as packed with people as the streets.

  David leaned down to a man who was pressed up against his horse’s withers and had distinguished himself from the other spectators by offering a muttered apology for his closeness. “What’s happening?”

  “We thought we’d let Clare know that he can’t become king without us,” the man said with clear satisfaction and without looking at David. “The crowning’s moved from the abbey to the castle because Clare fears us. We got too close.” He pointed towards the gatehouse of Westminster Castle fifty yards away.

  What the man said was true. Just visible through the dropped portcullis was a fine red carpet, which had been laid across the cobbles in preparation for Clare’s open air crowning. Clare must really have been afraid that the people of London would stop the ceremony to have moved it from the abbey. They’d denied Empress Maud the crown. They could do it to Clare if they chose. He was still allowing a portion of them—those who could get close enough—to watch by leaving the wooden gates to the castle open.

  Henri shouted over the hubbub to David. “No guard is going to raise the portcullis to let us in, not with this crowd pressing against it.”

  “I’ll scale the wall if I have to,” David said, “but we might be able to enter through the rear gate.”

  He was running out of time. Once Lili infiltrated the Lambeth radio station, her voice would broadcast from the speaker located high up on the gatehouse wall. This was one of the best places to hear news in London because the speaker had come out of the Cardiff bus and always worked.