He returned to his current predicament and now had a chance to compose his thoughts and consider his various theories. Charlie liked
to apply logic to everything but this was way beyond his understanding and therefore defeated his logic. He had no terms of reference and could not liken this to anything he had experienced before. Whichever way he looked at it he kept coming back to the same thing, that Sir Geoffrey at the very least believed that he was a real knight and, if he was, then Charlie was rather further from home than he had at first imagined. A lot further.
There was also something strange and different about his surroundings. There did not seem to be an atmosphere of modernity; even when you are in the middle of the country there always seems to be something that reminds you that you are in a twenty-first century world. Perhaps the top of an electricity pylon glimpsed through treetops, or the faraway rushing water sound of a motorway, or a crushed drink can, a discarded wrapper of some kind or an airliner flying overhead at thirty thousand feet leaving a thin white vapour trail. But all the time they had been traveling Charlie had seen nothing. Not a single thing to tell him where he was. It was as if all traces of the modern world had been erased. The trees looked greener and less polluted; the grass and plants seemed more luxuriant and plump, the sky seemed bluer and the air smelled, well, somehow fresher. All that Charlie knew and understood led him to the conclusion that, improbable as it seemed, he was actually in another period of time. But of course that was completely ridiculous.
“We are nearly there Charlie Watts.” Sir Geoffrey’s deep voice startled Charlie from his pondering. “We are close to the castle of Sherebrook; we shall get a fine view of it on the horizon shortly.”
Charlie expected to see the glistening vista of a modern town as sunlight bounced from a thousand windows, the jagged skyline of roofs and television aerials and the inevitable roads filled with cars. What he actually saw was a full-size castle. It was silhouetted perfectly on the horizon perhaps a couple of miles away. It was breathtaking and Charlie gulped down his surprise which was mixed with awe and apprehension. He now realised that the question that he should be asking himself was not where he was but when he was.
TEN
One Tooth had run without break for six miles, he had crossed two streams, climbed seven steep hills and run twice through hedges of skin shredding gorse bushes without so much as breaking his stride or pausing to gain his breath. He ran, or rather loped, like an animal, stooped low and with his arms barely moving but looking up every so often to check the position of the sun and to get his bearings. He knew that the road taken by the knight and the boy followed a huge loop around to the south and did not go directly from point to point. The route that One Tooth was taking cut directly across the loop forming the down stroke of a letter “D” shape and he knew that he had overtaken them. Only when he neared the place, that he judged best for an ambush, did he begin to slow and then finally stop.
He was on a small hill that overlooked the road to Sherebrook castle, which was about two miles further on. He knew that it was a huge risk, robbing a traveller this close to the castle, but he didn’t care. As he ran he thought about the big purse of gold slung at the belt of the knight and he kept mulling over in his mind what he would do with such a fortune. It was rare for travellers to carry much in the way of wealth, a few pence at most, just enough for them to complete whatever business they were on the road for. Most people of substance either hired men at arms to guard them and their wealth, or they buried it in a place known only to them. Even if someone were carrying a good deal of money they certainly wouldn’t advertise the fact. He thought that either the knight had suffered a lapse of judgement or that he felt he could deal with any robber he came across. Well, thought One Tooth, the old fool has a nasty shock coming to him.
At the foot of the hill there was a line of thick bushes nearly as high as a man. One Tooth decided that he would hide himself behind these and await the passing of the pair. He decided that his strategy would be to shoot an arrow into the knight’s throat, followed by a charge at the boy with a sword. He would despatch the boy at a stroke and then finish off the knight, if he were still alive.
His confidence was sky high, he knew that the purse would soon be his and the warhorse too. That would fetch a good price, as long as it had no brand markings burned into its flanks. He found a suitable place for himself behind the bushes where he was no more than ten metres from the road, a good distance for his arrow to accurately find its target in the neck of the knight. Just in front of him was a break in the line of bushes through which he could fire and then make his charge at the boy. He crouched down and removed an arrow from the quiver on his back and he notched it on the bowstring taking several practice draws to establish its tautness. Sometimes the tension slackened after a period of non-use or if the bowstring had become damp. He found the tension perfect. He started to wait, perfectly silent, perfectly still.
He waited for nearly an hour and then he heard the regular beat of an approaching warhorse, his pulse quickened; just a beat or two, and beads of perspiration popped onto his dirty, creased forehead. The bloodlust was coursing through his veins and his thirst for violence it was almost as strong as his hunger for the gold.
The horse was nearly level with him and it was now carrying the boy as well, which made it easier because the boy would not be able to run. He knew it was now or never and he stood up and drew back the bowstring to its very farthest extent, straining every sinew in his arms, aiming at the neck of the knight, knowing that his shaft would pierce even armour. Just as he took aim the boy looked directly at him but it was too late. The arrow was on its way to soft flesh.
ELEVEN
It was now clear to Charlie that he was in another time. How he had got here had ceased to be relevant for the moment, but the facts were simple: one minute he was in 2006 and the next he was in…well, whatever date this was. He now assumed that by walking into the strange cupboard-like room in Gramps’ cellar he had passed through some kind of time tunnel that had instantly transported him to this period in history. He was sitting astride a huge warhorse, behind a real knight called Sir Geoffrey, who came from somewhere called Bagshotte, and he had managed to find himself employed as the squire of this knight.
He was now being taken into a castle where he guessed he would be spending some time running around after Sir Geoffrey’s needs. What does a squire do? Charlie wondered. But that was not the only question, he had others; How do I get home? How does the “time tunnel” work? Why was there such a thing in Gramps house? Does Gramps know about it? If he does will he understand what has happened and know how to get me back? How am I supposed to behave whilst I am here? Am I in danger? Can I be killed? Am I stuck here for the rest of my life? Will any actions I take here have a profound effect on the history of civilisation? How can I hide my training shoes? The questions in Charlie’s head veered between the philosophical and the downright mundane.
Suddenly, a rapid movement in the bushes at the side of the road caught Charlie’s eye and he turned to look. A figure had stood up and was aiming an arrow right at him or at Sir Geoffrey. Charlie did not know for sure who the arrow was aimed at but he realised in an instant that they were in mortal danger.
He had to react and immediately grabbed hold of Sir Geoffrey’s shoulders and heaved with all the strength that he had in his body. It
was like pulling at a huge slab of rock but he did just enough to heave the knight backwards in the saddle. As he did so the figure in the bushes let the arrow loose and it screamed past Sir Geoffrey, at the height of his neck, and buried itself with a dull thudding sound into the trunk of a tree on the opposite side of the road. Sir Geoffrey reacted immediately by reigning Rufus in and flinging himself from the horse, knocking Charlie clear at the same time.
“Outlaw!” cried Sir Geoffrey at the top of his voice.
The assailant immediately notc
hed another arrow and let fly again at Sir Geoffrey, who had by now gained his feet and was charging toward the source of the arrows. The second shot again missed the charging knight and buried itself in the thick leather saddle on Rufus’ back. If it had hit any part of the saddle other than the thick pommel it would have gone straight through and into Rufus’s flesh. Charlie looked up at the figure in the bushes and saw him draw a sword to face Sir Geoffrey who was now upon him. It was no contest. The assailant took a wild swing at Sir Geoffrey but it was as if a gnat had tried to take a bite from a charging rhino. The blow connected with the shoulder of Sir Geoffrey but the old rusted sword simply shattered into pieces against the chain mail of the knight and that was the last act of their attacker. The knight’s sword disappeared into the chest of the outlaw, slicing his heart in two and he slumped to the ground, immediately dead.
Charlie was appalled and tore his gaze from the scene. He had never seen a dead person before, especially not someone who had actually been killed. His mouth went dry and he felt burning hot bile rise in his throat making him want to gag. Sir Geoffrey now had his foot on the chest of the dead man to brace himself as he yanked his sword from the outlaw’s chest. He then turned away with no further interest in the corpse and walked back to where Charlie, whose mouth was open and who was scared out of his wits, was standing.
“Charlie Watts, close your mouth.” This was a command and now Charlie realised that he should do exactly as he was told.
“Charlie Watts,” repeated Sir Geoffrey, “I met you just this morning but by day’s end you have saved my life. Without your action I would be laying here with an arrow in my throat and I have no doubt that you would also be dead. I am in your debt, Charlie Watts, and I will not forget
that. Now, clean my sword and I will deal with Rufus.” He held out his huge battle sword to Charlie who just stared at it.
“Come now, take the sword and clean it for me on the grass over there.”
Charlie did not move a muscle.
“Come now, what is it Charlie Watts,” said Sir Geoffrey with some concern in his voice. “Are you hurt?”
Charlie said nothing at first then he shook his head silently from side to side and said “No Sir Geoffrey, I am not hurt. What year is this?”
“This is the year of our lord 1140,” replied Sir Geoffrey, after thinking for a couple of seconds. “Now, are you going to clean my sword?”
“Yes. I’ll clean your sword,” said Charlie and he took the heavy sword from the knight and tried to avoid looking at the blood which was already drying and congealing on the blade. He carried it to a patch of grass and dragged it through a few times until most of the blood had gone. He returned it Sir Geoffrey who had removed the arrow from Rufus’ saddle and was studying it.
“An outlaw’s arrow,” he said. “Crudely made which makes it inaccurate; see how rough the shaft is? That makes the flight untrue. But rest assured it would probably have passed through my neck and out the other side.” He looked at Charlie and seemed to detect the change in the boy. “Have you seen a man felled in battle before Charlie Watts?
“No, I have not,” said Charlie.
Sir Geoffrey placed his hand on Charlie’s shoulder and said with a tender tone of voice, “I hope that you will not have to see it too often in my service Charlie Watts but we live in bloody times. If we are not fighting these damned outlaws then it is battle with Matilda’s forces. I for one would like to see a time when we do not settle things only by death but for now it is the way of things. You will find that the turmoil you feel will pass in time and the sight will become easier for you. Now then, back on Rufus and let us make the castle before the evening is upon us.”
They were back on the powerful horse and Charlie took one look back at the dead man as they trotted away. He would never be the same person again and he knew it.
So there it was, in a nutshell, the confirmation that he had almost been to frightened to think. He, Charlie Watts, was now alive in 1140, nearly one thousand years in the past and not a clue as to how he got here or how to get back. For all his sureness of mind, intelligence and understanding, Charlie’s blood ran ice cold as he realised that he was now on his own. He was a stranger in a strange place. Now, after the killing of the robber on the roadside, he realised that his biggest problem may be just staying alive, let alone getting back to where he belonged.
He also realised that even if Gramps had a way of bringing him back that it might be some time before he was able to. What if Gramps couldn’t get him back? What if Gramps stood in the cellar scratching his head wondering where Charlie had gone? What if the time tunnel only worked for fourteen-year-old boys called Charlie Watts? Then he realised he would have to find his own way back to his own time and that might prove to be impossible. He supposed he could find his way back to where he had arrived but what then?
All these questions and more kept running through his head but they all seemed to point to one thing: that Charlie was pretty much stuck in this time, at least for the foreseeable future.
TWELVE
They were now about a quarter of a mile from the castle and had started to travel through a village which ran right up to the castle wall. All of the buildings were made from wood and some sort of mud bricks that had, for some reason, bits of straw in them. There was lots of activity. Charlie saw children playing in groups, and one group of about ten children were rhythmically chanting a rhyme of some kind whilst holding hands and dancing around a very small girl who stood in the middle of their circle. The girl was crying and was clearly upset. Another group of children were playing with a leather covered ball and still another group were using sticks to torment and goad a large mud covered pig in a wooden pen.
There were adults too: women tending pots of boiling liquid, men standing or sitting around deep in conversation or working at a range of trades. There was a man sharpening knives against a huge spinning stone that was being turned by a boy of about half Charlie’s age. There was also a gigantic fat, red-faced man who had the carcass of a sheep on a table in front of him and just as Charlie and Sir Geoffrey rode by he saw the man brandish a gleaming knife and slit the belly of the animal from its neck to its groin. There was a definite hissing sound and the insides of the sheep slopped out onto the table. Charlie felt instantly sick and he looked away immediately.
The village layout was haphazard. Dwellings had been erected wherever there was space and they had clearly been built to different standards of workmanship. Some looked quite sturdy and had two storeys with solid looking walls, shuttered windows and wooden doors. Others however, looked as if they had been put up in a day with windows hacked roughly into the mud brick walls and roofs of sagging brown
reeds that looked in imminent danger of collapse. There were pens of animals, goats, chickens, pigs and an occasional bony cow but there were as many animals running free, especially emaciated dogs and cats whose ribs stuck out from under the thin covering of skin and fur. They looked like they were barely clinging to life.
The people were all dressed in similar clothes, rough-looking wool tunics and animal fur leggings for the men and dresses for the women made of the same material. The clothes were dyed in a small range of colours, red, brown, green and a sandy colour. Charlie studied their faces which appeared careworn, rugged and unwashed. The women nearly all looked as ruddy as the men with no hint of femininity. What struck Charlie the most was the smells. Everything smelled so earthy and foul. There were cooking smells of boiling vegetables, the smell of flesh like in a butcher’s shop, which Charlie assumed was coming from the man who he had just seen gut the sheep, the smell of sweat and the unmistakable stink of human waste.
Charlie looked about him and with dismay saw that there was an extremely small stream, more a gutter really, running down the central street along which they were travelling and it was dotted here and there with the by-product of human existence. Charl
ie was appalled at the lack of sanitation but realised that this was the way of things in this period. He remembered that there was no real concept of hygiene; little in the way of medicine and that human life amongst the peasants was cheap. He hoped he would not fall ill once he realised that his body would not be adjusted to the types of food that he would have to eat.
He remembered going to Portugal with his mother two years ago, just after his father had left. His mother wanted chance to relax and think things through. It was not a great holiday; all Charlie could remember was a week of staring at the whitewashed ceiling of the villa that they were staying in. On the first night Charlie had eaten a chicken sandwich and had immediately contracted food poisoning. He had had severe diarrhoea and vomiting and had not been able to enjoy a single day until they had left for home. He had had terrible stomach pains and that was in spite of the attendance of a local doctor who had given Charlie’s mother a hatful of drugs and medicines. There would be no drugs here, thought Charlie, and therefore it was even more imperative that he remained well.
“Magnificent, is it not, Charlie Watts?” asked Sir Geoffrey as he gestured a huge gloved hand toward the castle in front of them.
Charlie looked closely at the castle for the first time and saw that unlike others he had seen in his own time, this one looked brand new. The stones were gleaming white and free of moss or discolouration and there were no tumbledown parts or ruined walls or collapsed ramparts. He knew what kind of castle it was, a moat and bailey, because he had recently studied medieval life during history lessons at school.
Charlie Watts and the Rip in Time Page 7
