Prince of Time (Book Two in the After Cilmeri series)

by Sarah Woodbury

  An image of my castle of Twyn y Garth hovered in my head and a sick feeling settled into the pit of my stomach at how far away it was. “We talked of Humphrey de Bohun when we were in Carlisle,” I said. “How worried are you about what’s happening in our absence?”

  I glanced at Dafydd, the only light from the hand-held lamp—itself a miraculous invention—that he’d clipped to his book.

  “I am, quite frankly, terrified to think of it,” he said. “I’ve been driving away thoughts of Wales since we got here. I don’t know that I have ever felt as helpless as I do right now.”

  “Will we be able to return home?” I asked.

  “I have some ideas to try,” he said, “preferably ones that aren’t going to get us killed. I told my father that if I returned to this world, I’d spend the rest of my life trying to find a way back to Wales. I’m just sorry we won’t have Bronwen’s help.”

  “She gave you the weapons,” I said.

  “Yes, but she drove away and left me. I still don’t know where we’re going to get the money for a vehicle to get us where we need to go.”

  Prince Dafydd had checked our weapons at the front desk of the hospital. He’d told the woman in charge that we were members of this group—the Society for Creative Anachronism—and had been participating in an event when I got hurt. That she accepted his explanation was not surprising to me—Prince Dafydd had that effect on people as a rule—but what did astound me was that we were the only ones who’d brought swords to the hospital. Or weapons of any kind.

  This too brought home to me the vast changes that had occurred between my time and this one. On one hand, in the hospital, families still cared for one another. Mothers sat beside their ill sons’ beds while fathers paced the corridors. The mothers looked just like any mother when her child was sick. Prince Dafydd had assured me that women gave birth in one part of the hospital and people died in another part. Every day.

  Some people still got married, and some people didn’t, just as in Wales. A son might rebel against his father and make his mother cry, or follow in his father’s footsteps, just as in Wales. The sun rose and set, the wind blew, the rain fell, just as in Wales.

  But the trappings were so different, and I suspected that the meaning behind the behaviors was different too. How was it that Bronwen lived by herself, an unmarried girl? How was it that a Moor slept in the room next to mine and nobody thought anything of it? How was it that the only person my lord knew who’d died before he came to Wales was his grandmother, who passed away at the ancient age of eighty-five? It gave me new respect for the fourteen-year-old boy he’d been, who led an army before he’d ever killed a man.

  I brought my head back to the library. In front of me, Prince Dafydd, with Bronwen beside him, climbed the stairwell, his broad shoulders filling the space. Bronwen might think him a boy, but in Wales he was a man and he’d done nothing to make us think he didn’t deserve the trust we placed in him. Wales was lucky to have him, but I wasn’t sure I was ever going to understand how his mind worked, or the world he inhabited inside himself.

  Dafydd pushed through the gray door at the top of the stairs, and led us into the cathedral that served as the university library. I tried not to gawk, yet at the same time take in the magnificence of my surroundings. We walked down a wide, central aisle, tables on our right and high bookshelves on our left. Although I intended to keep up with Dafydd and Bronwen, I stopped beside a large book that lay open on a small, raised table. It showed a picture of man on a horse, holding a sword in his right hand.

  “From what time is this?” I asked. His clothes were odd, but the pose was familiar.

  Prince Dafydd returned to me and peered over my shoulder. “That’s a statue of George Washington. He was the first president of this country.”

  “I don’t understand the word,” I said. “What is a ‘president’.”

  Dafydd looked at Bronwen, who answered. “The United States, the country where we are right now, has no kings, Ieuan; has never had a king. All people over eighteen years of age, men and women, of whatever color or religion, with money and without, vote every four years for the person they want to lead our country.”

  Her words washed over me, but I’d reached the point of acceptance, no matter how strange or impossible the descriptions. “Is there a president of Wales, in this time?” I asked.

  Dafydd stilled. He looked across the table to Bronwen, but she didn’t seem to share his obvious concern at my question. She shifted from one foot to another, clearly impatient to move on.

  “Wales is part of Great Britain, Ieuan,” she said. “When Llywelyn ap Gruffydd was killed by the English in 1282, Wales ceased to exist as an independent country. It was absorbed into England. Edward I made his own son the Prince of Wales and the eldest son of the King or Queen of England has held that position ever since. It’s only in the last twenty years that Wales has begun to separate itself from England once again. They do vote for their own parliament now, but the real power is still in England.”

  A chill ran through my body and settled in my stomach. “How can this be, my lord?” I asked my Prince. “We went forward in time to a place that believes your father died at Buellt. But he didn’t die. Why don’t they know it?”

  “Because we’re not only in a different time, Ieuan, but in a different world, one that seems to exist simultaneously with our own. This puzzled me when Anna and I first came to Wales. I worried that by changing the history of Wales, I could change the future so dramatically, perhaps I myself would no longer exist. Once we arrived back here, however, and I’d spoken with Bronwen about this matter, I realized that we didn’t change this world at all. We left it, and went to another—one whose future we will determine. The people here aren’t part of our future. We’ll make our own future in Wales when we return.”

  It was impossible, yet here we were. I couldn’t look at them, then, nor at the marvelous books and the incredible machines. “So in this world, you never were the Prince of Wales? For the people of this world, the English murdered your father—and then what?”

  I glanced up. Dafydd kept his eyes fixed on my face as he spoke words that were like knife strokes to my heart. “King Edward subjugated Wales entirely. My half-sister, Gwenllian, was kidnapped and spent her life in an English convent; Uncle Dafydd’s sons were imprisoned in wooden cages at Bristol Castle for their entire lives; and Uncle Dafydd himself was hanged, drawn and quartered, and then dragged through the streets of Shrewsbury. Edward displayed both his and my father’s heads on poles in London. This is why Tudur made his peace with England. There no longer was a Wales to serve.”

  “And when does this happen?” I asked.

  “By 1283, Wales was no more.”

  I stared down at the picture of George Washington. The wonders of this world had lost their beauty. “We need to find a way home, my Prince,” I said. “We need to find it right now.”

  Chapter Eight

  Bronwen

  I brought Ieuan and David to the pizza place. We wended our way through a surprisingly full restaurant, given that it was one in the morning, to a booth at the back. As we sat down, Ieuan ran his hand over the bright red seats before sitting.

  I hesitated. Who should I sit next to—Ieuan or David? I chose Ieuan so I could see David talk. It was a trick I’d learned from a psych major friend of mine in order to watch a guy’s face to spot when he was lying. Ieuan slid over to give me room, though there wasn’t much, as he seemed to take up three-quarters of the bench without trying. It wasn’t that he was that tall, and he certainly was lean, but his shoulders were broad, undoubtedly a product of the hours of sword fighting and archery he’d done in the last ten years. My mind blanked away at that thought. You believe he’s for real, don’t you? Where’s your objectivity? Why do you want to believe him? Just because you like him...a lot? Because it seems he might like you even a little?

  “It’s not real leather, Ieuan,” David said, sitting across from us. “You’d be su
rprised at the number of items—even food—that aren’t natural in this world. Let’s hope this restaurant uses real cheese.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “They do, though you can get soy pepperoni if you ask.”

  A server, a friend of mine—perhaps former friend—from the archaeology department who’d refused to catch my eye earlier in the day, came over. Now, she was artificially cheerful.

  “Hi, Bronwen!” she said in greeting. “It’s great to see you!”

  “Hi, Tammy,” I said, and introduced Ieuan and David. She took our order, eyeing Ieuan the whole time, and I scooted a millimeter closer to him. I glared at her—he is so not available!

  She handed us cups so we could get our drinks, along with some sympathy for my predicament. “I heard about the stipend,” she said. “I’m sorry. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, not wanting to talk about it, but at the same time glad she’d dropped the happy act. “Tim, Chris, and Juliann have already quit.”

  “I know,” Tammy said. “I’m moving into Juliann’s office tomorrow. It’s bigger than mine, and I’ll only have to share with two people instead of three.”

  She smiled at me before turning away, and I stared after her. Of all the mercenary…

  “Are you okay?” David asked, interrupting my thoughts. “What was that about?”

  I sighed. “I lost my funding for graduate school the day you got here,” I said. “Our server is one of my colleagues.”

  “Who still has a grant,” David said.

  I glared at him, then turned to Ieuan. He was watching me openly and his eyes were crinkling at the edges as they smiled.

  “This way,” I said, grabbing two cups and sliding out of the booth. Ieuan slid out behind me, a little stiffly, a hand to his ribs. He followed me to the soda dispenser and watched me fill my cup with ice and then diet soda. He put his cup under the ice as I had, but when he made to fill it with the same drink I stopped him. “Try the root beer instead,” I said, not wanting him to have too much caffeine or corrupt his body with artificial sweetener, if it was the first time he’d ever had it.

  Ieuan inspected the dispenser, peering past it to the tanks on the other side of the counter. “Those contain the liquid?” he asked.

  I nodded. Determined not to be sucked in, I returned to the booth with Ieuan, sat next to him and sipped my drink. David had root beer too, and made a face after the first sip. “It’s sweeter than I remember,” he said. “It tastes a bit like cough medicine.”

  All full-sugar soft drinks were too sweet for me, but I was picky. The old diet soda product Tab tasted to me like Kentucky Fried Chicken handi-wipes, so who was I to complain about David’s tastes?

  “How long before the pizza comes?” Ieuan asked. Half his soda was already gone.

  “About fifteen minutes,” I said.

  “I can’t wait,” David said. “I’ve been trying to create pizza ever since I arrived in Wales, but without success. Pizza dough is the easiest part, but the spices are impossible to find, and without them, it just isn’t pizza; that and the fact that there are no tomatoes in Wales, and thus, no sauce.”

  “You should have seen the face of the cook at Denbigh Castle when Prince Dafydd entered the kitchen for the first time,” Ieuan chimed in, laughing at the memory. “She was horrified.”

  “You liked what I made though, didn’t you?” David asked. And then, accusingly, “You said you did!”

  Ieuan sucked down more of his drink, but didn’t answer, though his mouth was twitching under his mustache. “Anything is going to be better than the food in the hospital,” he said. “Why was everything so mushy? Where was the meat?”

  “It’s called a ‘soft food’ diet,” I said. “Mashed potatoes, oatmeal, gelatin.”

  “The potatoes were good,” Ieuan admitted. “I’ve never had anything like them before. My lord dressed them up with butter and salt and they tasted delicious.”

  “They don’t have potatoes in Wales?” I asked. “What about the Irish Potato famine and all that?”

  “Potatoes are from the New World, Bronwen,” David reminded me. “We’ve got another three hundred years before Columbus brings some back to Spain.”

  I’d forgotten that. “What vegetables do you have?”

  “Oh, lots,” David said. “Carrots, leeks, asparagus, Brussels sprouts, mushrooms, onions, peas, parsnips, turnips. Just no potatoes, tomatoes, squash, peppers, or corn.”

  “What’s ‘corn’?” Ieuan asked.

  Only the most utilized vegetable on the planet. I contemplated him while he sipped his drink. I would have looked away, to pretend I hadn’t been watching him, but before I could, he winked at me.

  “I need some more of this drink,” Ieuan said.

  “I’ll get it,” I said. “You sit and let those ribs rest.”

  Ieuan shook his head. “The more I move, the better. It just hurts getting up and down.” Shrugging, I stood and let him pass, and then scooted over to where he’d been sitting. Otherwise, I suspected I was going to be getting up a lot.

  A few minutes later, the pizza came. I’d ordered a super-large one with everything on it, and I actually heard the men’s stomachs growl as the server placed it in front of us. I ate one piece: Aha! A new food group! and they ate the rest.

  Watching the men eat pizza was practically obscene they enjoyed it so much, but I was impatient and ready to hear what they had to say. “So are you going to talk?” I asked David after he had consumed his third piece before taking a breath.

  “Sure,” he said.

  Between mouthfuls, David told me how he and his sister, Anna, had been transported to Wales of 1282, rescued Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, who turned out to be David’s father, and lived there ever since. David’s mother, Marged, had conceived David during a prior trip to Wales, been returned to the twentieth century, and then was sent back again to 1284. From there, the history of his Wales diverged so profoundly from the real history, it was hard to keep track of what was real and what wasn’t. David and Ieuan seemed real: their easy camaraderie, coupled with Ieuan’s deference was very genuine.

  For me, it wasn’t David, for all his eloquence and sincerity, that made me want to believe them, but Ieuan. First, there was a wide-eyed innocence to him, despite the gory tales he told me while wolfing down his food. According to Ieuan, David was a man of action, fighting off the English, personally rescuing everyone from stray puppies to damsels in distress, and virtually saving Wales single-handedly. The sub-text that I read, even though Ieuan didn’t say it, was that he’d been beside David all the while, protecting and serving him.

  Second, Ieuan spoke what had to be an older version of Welsh, and language isn’t something you can falsify, no matter how smart you are. It’s too elaborate, too complex, to create out of whole cloth just to fool me. Third, his whole being screamed ‘Middle Ages’, from his completely out of place mustache, to his clothes, to the knife in his boot. It made Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings movies look fake.

  Finally, my thoughts kept returning to Ieuan’s words in the library, when David had to tell him that Wales was no longer a country, and that everyone he loved had died, some very gruesomely. It forced me to face that either their story was true, or they’d escaped from a mental institution. There was no alternative.

  I eyed Ieuan picking a piece of pepperoni off his pizza. David leaned back in his seat, seemingly sated.

  “How far is it to Bryn Mawr?” he asked.

  “Less than three hours,” I said.

  Silence.

  “I know you have a very busy schedule,” David said. “Thank you for taking us to pizza, and maybe even believing us a little. We can’t take up more of your time.”

  I said nothing, just fidgeting with my place setting. “You could drive us to Bryn Mawr,” Ieuan said. “I would spend more time in your company.”

  I turned to him. He was studying me, and it seemed that no one had ever looked at me as intently. I racked my brain
s for one last question; one last thought that would prove beyond a doubt they were not from thirteenth century Wales.

  Then it hit me: the newspaper story. There had to be one. Without answering Ieuan, I whipped out my laptop and set it up on the table in front of me. The pizza place had wireless internet, so it was a simple matter to search for ‘David Lloyd’ and see what came up. Ieuan leaned closer, his arm stretched across the back of the seat. As he coudn’t read English, supposedly, it wasn’t clear why he needed to see the screen.

  And there it was:

  December 12, 2010, Bryn Mawr, PA. A Bryn Mawr police report was filed today regarding the disappearance of Anna Lloyd (16) and her brother David (14). Their mother, Marged Lloyd, reported them missing after they failed to return home yesterday evening…

  And then:

  August 24, 2012, Baker City, OR. Search and Rescue workers, scoured the mountains near Baker City for the third day in a search for a downed plane carrying pilot, Martin Tesky and his sole passenger, Marged Lloyd, a professor at Northern Oregon University. The flight was a routine run from Pasco, Washington to Boise, Idaho. Ms. Lloyd’s children also disappeared in an unexplained manner in 2010…

  I considered the screen. David could have read about the disappearances and adopted Lloyd’s identity, but to what end? Just to fool me? I admitted, finally, that it was enough, for now. I capitulated.

  “We can make it by 6 am,” I said, “just in time to wake up your aunt.”

  David was on his feet so fast he almost overturned the table. He gathered us up and hustled us out of the restaurant, back to the parking lot where I’d left my car. Ieuan sputtered a bit, but he managed to hold onto his last piece of pizza and his root beer.