Masters of Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  Just as at La Rochelle, every castle had some kind of narrow side entrance, a sally port or a postern gate, which was easily reinforced from the inside and was a waste of time to try to batter down, since any men who made it through would be killed one at a time. Westminster Castle was no exception. David led Henri and Thomas off the street, around to the north side of the castle, and a hundred yards along the wall to the square north tower.

  It was quiet here. The wall was thirty feet high and as solid as they come, so there was nothing to see. David approached the gate, which was recessed into the wall under the shelter of the gatehouse. Since the portcullis was down and the great wooden gate behind it was closed, he didn’t bother asking for admittance through there. Instead, he looked to his right where a narrow wooden door, reinforced in metal, faced him. Once it was opened, men could enter single file in order to navigate the narrow, U-shaped passage, which led to an identical door on the other side of the portcullis. As at the commanderie of La Rochelle, a little iron-barred window was located in the door at eye height.

  David knocked.

  After a moment, the shutter for the window opened, but it was impossible to see who was behind the door, as it was pitch black on the other side. David was glad again of his Templar garb because the chances were very high that the guard would know him on sight. It was one thing to assume nobody would know him at Portsmouth, a place David had never been before. It was quite another to expect any kind of anonymity at Westminster Palace, his seat in London.

  “Our orders are to let nobody in,” the man said.

  Thomas put his face to the little window. “I am Sir Thomas Hartley, Templar knight. I must speak to Godfrid de Windsor, the Templar master, who is within, on an urgent matter!”

  “I’m sorry. My orders are clear.”

  David knew why that was true. Clare didn’t want to give anyone a chance to stop the ceremony. Thomas stepped back and looked at David, who shrugged. It seemed he had no choice. He removed his helmet, swept his hand through his sweat-soaked hair, and bent to the window so the guard could see his face clearly. “Let me in.”

  The man gasped, stuttered several my lords, sweet Marys, and a few curses, for which he immediately apologized. Two seconds later, the door swung open. “You’re alive!”

  David stepped into the doorway and put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Not a word.”

  The man’s eyes were as big as serving platters.

  “What’s your name?” David said to him.

  “W-W-Walter Vaughan, sir.”

  David canted his head, recalling the face. “Were you at Windsor when we defeated William de Valence?”

  “Yes, my lord! I was! And a great day that was, if I may be so bold as to say, my lord.”

  “It was a great day. Hopefully, this will be another, but I need cooperation from you.” David looked at him intently. “As soon as I head into the courtyard, I need you to gather four or five men and stand guard over the radio speaker. Queen Lili is going to speak, and once she does, you need to turn the volume up all the way.”

  “Y-y-yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. It’s up on the battlement.”

  David knew that. “Will getting there be a problem?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Walter was starting to recover, now that he had a specific task before him.

  David moved down the passage, Henri and Thomas following, but leaving the horses behind, since they wouldn’t fit. David had a moment’s pang, thinking of the horse he’d left outside the commanderie at La Rochelle under not too dissimilar conditions. The horse had belonged to the man he’d killed. He wished he could leave the memory of driving that arrow through the man’s neck as easily as he’d shed the man’s possessions.

  Then Thomas stopped and turned back to Walter, who’d shut the door. “Get someone to take care of our horses too, if you will. They belong to the Templars.”

  “Yes, my lord!” He looked past Thomas to David. “May I just say, thanks be to God that you’re alive.”

  David mustered up a grin and saluted him. Then he clapped his helmet back on his head so his features would be hidden when he came out the second narrow door and into the castle, having bypassed the portcullis and the gate completely. He didn’t want anyone else to recognize him before he was ready.

  Walter came hustling after them, last of all. But then he hesitated as he looked past David to the activity in the courtyard near the main gate. Music was being played on a flute. It had the rhythm of a processional, presumably for the Archbishop and Clare, though David couldn’t see them from where he stood. As the music rose in volume, the audience in the courtyard and the crowd outside the castle fell silent.

  “Oh no,” Thomas said, his voice rising in concern. “The ceremony is starting.”

  Chapter Thirty-two

  17 June 1293

  Rupert

  “And that’s the news.”

  Rupert leaned back in his chair, pleased by his writing but not by what he was going to have to broadcast in a few minutes. The story was about Clare’s crowning at Westminster, which Clare viewed as such a foregone conclusion that he hadn’t released Rupert from his responsibilities at the station to witness it. Clare didn’t want a real report of what happened at the ceremony. The story would read as Clare wanted it to read, even if the Archbishop bobbled the crown and dropped it before he put it on Clare’s head.

  It was a travesty of journalism, but after only a few days under Clare’s authority, Rupert knew with certainty that this would be par for the course for news as long as Clare was in charge.

  Here Rupert was, the premier newsman in England, for God’s sake, in the world even, muffled by a jumped-up dictator. Rupert mouthed the words to himself: the world’s premier newsman. He would have put it on his office door at Westminster Castle if he could have done so without David mocking him mercilessly for it, or more likely, giving him the raised eyebrow look he had that meant he didn’t have to say anything.

  But now David was dead, murdered in France, and Rupert was being forced to be a mouthpiece for Gilbert de Clare. Back at home, his colleagues would have been drooling to have the kind of access he had to power, but he’d learned something in the last six months. For all that he’d been appalled to find himself in the Middle Ages, it had been the story of a lifetime, and David had allowed him to tell it—as long as he called the modern world Avalon.

  Heavy feet outside the door had him turning in his chair, frowning as Tom Dale, one of Gilbert de Clare’s soldiers, entered. The man closed the door behind him and took his chair in the corner behind the door as he always did. He put his feet up on an adjacent table, scattering some of Rupert’s notes to the floor. Clare’s soldiers had no respect for their captive, not that Rupert was officially a captive. Gilbert de Clare had been entirely sincere in his desire to maintain order in England.

  But Rupert’s request to speak to Lili had been denied, and from that moment on, he hadn’t trusted a single word Clare had said.

  “I should be at the ceremony.”

  “My lord Clare felt England would be better served if you remained here. You should be getting ready to broadcast.”

  Rupert didn’t bother to hide his irritation. He should have hidden it better three days ago when Clare’s men had stumped into his office at Westminster Castle and asked him—or rather, demanded—that he come with them. He’d met Clare in the castle’s receiving room. Lili hadn’t been on her throne, and when Clare had told him why, Rupert had almost cried himself. David might have been a young American kid, but there was something about him that never ceased to surprise Rupert and that he’d learned to respect.

  Clare, however, had straight out told him that he’d taken over the Lambeth Station—and all the stations in England—and that every broadcast from that moment on had to be vetted by him before it went out. In addition, all communication by two-way radio was cut off, except for what Clare authorized.

  Which is why Rupert had been forced to write his story
according to Clare’s version of events, rather than what might really be happening in the next minute or two.

  Someone knocked on the door. Clare’s soldier didn’t move. It was petty of Tom to make Rupert get up to answer it, but it was only one of many indignities Rupert had suffered the last few days.

  Rupert stood, taking his time as he sauntered to the door, and opened it. Nicholas de Carew, buttressed by Huw and a man Rupert didn’t know, stood on the doorstep. At the sight of Rupert, Carew didn’t shove the knife he held in his hand through Rupert’s gut, but put a finger to his lips and raised his eyebrows.

  “Who is it?” Tom had deigned to rise to his feet and was moving towards the door.

  Rupert gave a nearly imperceptible tip of his head and stepped back, leaving the field to Carew, who knew exactly what to do. He gripped the edge of the door and, with enormous force, flung it wide.

  It caught Tom square on the nose. By then, Huw, axe in hand, had rounded the door. Carew caught the door as it rebounded off Tom’s head, and Huw grasped the stunned Tom, whose nose was streaming blood, and threw him to the ground.

  Then Queen Lili, of all people, entered through the door, holding baby Alexander. Carew closed the door behind her, and the third man picked up the knife Tom had dropped.

  “Roll him onto his belly, Raff, and tie his hands,” Carew said.

  “He’s Clare’s man,” Huw said. “Why don’t we kill him?”

  “Too many are going to die in the next few days in the aftermath of Clare’s treason,” Carew said. “Following orders is not a hanging offense.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Rupert said, “though I suppose I followed plenty I didn’t like in the last few days because I didn’t feel like I had a choice.”

  Huw glanced at Rupert, but he did as Carew had asked.

  Lili moved swiftly to Rupert’s side. “I need to send a broadcast right now. We must tell everyone that Dafydd is alive.”

  Rupert grimaced, searching for a way to gently break the news to Lili that he wasn’t. “He isn’t.”

  “He is. I met him on the road to London not two hours ago.”

  Rupert looked at Carew, who nodded. “He’s alive. Clare’s man shot him just before midnight on the 12th. He raced here from Chateau Niort to stop Clare from being crowned.”

  Lili put a hand on Rupert’s arm. “Dafydd has gone to Westminster, but the crowning is due to happen at any moment. With Clare’s men filling London, Dafydd needs the people on his side, but unless I tell them that he’s alive, it will take too long for the word to spread.”

  That Rupert understood. He was a newsman, after all. He’d spent his life chasing down leads and searching for a story that would make him famous. Well, this was the story of the year, and she wasn’t wrong to think that Rupert would want to tell it.

  Dismay, irritation, and fear had given way to excitement, and Rupert turned to his equipment. “I don’t know how far this will go out, because Clare has captured the other stations. They’ll be waiting for me to start broadcasting Clare’s version of events, but when it turns out to be you, they might shut down. Once Clare told everyone that David was dead, he wouldn’t let me say anything but what he prescribed.”

  “As long as the people around Westminster can hear me,” she said, “it will be enough for now.”

  “Westminster is easy.” Rupert tipped his head to indicate the castle, which lay to the west just across the Thames.

  Carew came up behind them. “Thanks for the warning, Rupert.”

  The newsman glanced at Carew. “Our would-be-king doesn’t exactly favor freedom of speech.” Rupert stepped back and gestured to Lili.

  Lili’s eyes widened. “Already?”

  Rupert grinned. “You’re on.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  17 June 1293

  David

  “My people, I pray that you open your ears to me. This is Lili, King David’s wife, Prince Arthur’s mother, and the woman who has been your queen. Five years ago, you bestowed the honor of ruling you on my husband. At the time, you didn’t know me at all. You didn’t know King David well either—”

  Henri, Thomas, and David had just reached the tail end of the audience that had gathered in the courtyard to witness Clare’s crowning. The person playing the flute hesitated at the initial blare of the loudspeaker. As Lili continued to speak, he stopped playing entirely.

  David found his throat thickening to hear his wife’s sweet voice and the beautiful words she was saying, but it turned David’s stomach to realize how close he and Lili had cut it.

  As Lili said David’s name again in the English way, he began edging his way towards the central stage, where Clare was on his knees before the Archbishop. In the sunlight, Clare’s hair was looking particularly red, though when seen up close David knew it was shot with significant amounts of gray. Both he and the archbishop were dressed in the full regalia of their stations—the Archbishop in robe and headpiece, with his golden staff in his hand, and Clare in a rich green robe, under which he wore unrelieved black, which David thought was an interesting choice.

  Thomas and Henri were invaluable in clearing the way for him, wedging themselves through the crowd as a buffer between the people and him, and the space around him widened with every step.

  “—but you took us into your hearts anyway. I am speaking to you today because you need to know that we were lied to by the man you even now are preparing to crown as your king. Clare told us that King David was dead and that he’d been killed by agents of France. These were lies. Let me say that again and more clearly. David. Is. Alive. And the men who tried to kill him were not from France but servants of Clare himself—”

  The silence was as near to total as one could expect from a thousand people as the entirety of the crowd—inside and outside the castle gate—listened to what Lili had to say. After she claimed that David was alive, several people did shout the news to those in the street, many of whom might not be able to hear the loudspeaker as well. Then the men and women in the courtyard began talking animatedly to one another too. Earlier, people had been pressed against the portcullis, but now they were openly banging on it. David didn’t think they could actually tear it down, but they looked like they were going to try.

  “—The assassin failed to kill either David or King Philip of France. David has returned to London, intending to enter Westminster Abbey. Even now he might be standing among you.”

  —In Shrewsbury, as Lili had started speaking, Cassie had been crossing the courtyard, having just had a shower. David had promised Bridget that he’d arrange for one to be built, along with a flushing toilet, and he’d been as good as his word. Callum had kept the radio manned around the clock, if only to hear whatever propaganda Clare was broadcasting. When Lili’s voice came tinnily through the speaker, Cassie shouted for Callum, who’d been conferring with Jeffries and Peter on the final arrangements for their army’s departure from Shrewsbury. He came running to find his wife standing before the radio, her hands clasped before her lips and tears streaming down her cheeks.

  —In Caerphilly, Meg had been up all night—first with Llywelyn’s counselors putting the finishing touches on their strike on Gloucester tomorrow, and then, just when she thought she might get some sleep, with Elisa, who’d spent the hours from three to six in the morning throwing up. Meg didn’t know if Elisa had a bug, or if her sickness was from a tension and grief that Elisa herself was too young to express in any other way.

  Grief and fear had brought low all the adults in Elisa’s life. Meg had been sitting at the table in the hall with a cup of coffee before her, desperate to think about anything besides the fate of David, Gwenllian, and Arthur—and wishing she’d put something stronger in her drink. She’d lost and recovered David enough times by now that she refused to believe outright that he was dead. Now, as she listened, she cried, her forehead to the table.

  Llywelyn came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “That’s my girl.”
r />   Meg managed a smile through her tears when she realized he wasn’t speaking of Meg herself, but of Lili.

  David had been steadily moving through the crowd. His pace had been slow at first, but once people recognized his Templar garb, they made way for him.

  Lili continued to speak: “The Normans conquered England two hundred years ago. Since then, except for King David himself, only a Norman has worn the English crown. But you, as a people, have a long history of choosing your kings. I’m asking you now to have faith that what I’m saying is true, to question what you’ve been told, and to give your king time to show himself—”

  It was the moment David had been waiting for. He pulled off his helmet, then his white cloak, and then the tunic with the red cross, leaving him dressed just in his mail armor. Having lost its shine several hundred miles ago, it looked gray in the noon sun in comparison to the grandeur of Clare and the onlookers, all of whom were dressed in their absolute best.

  David managed the last thirty yards in long strides, which took him to where Clare knelt. Just before the dais, Godfrid de Windsor stepped into David’s path. “It is good to see you in one piece, sire.” Then he bowed and gave way.

  As David passed by, he put a hand on Godfrid’s shoulder but didn’t say anything. He had no words to express his thanks. He owed the Templars, and no matter the cost in the end, he couldn’t regret asking them for help.

  At the sight of him stepping onto the dais, gasps came from all around as the people finally realized that Lili’s words were true. The entire crowd fell to its knees.

  Clare rose to his feet, but David ignored him. The Archbishop of Canterbury had the nerve to give David a small smile, and David allowed himself a brief narrowing of the eyes in return. Then he opened his arms wide and turned in a circle on the spot, allowing his people to behold him.