Each of them had taken a sword and dagger from the weapons discarded on the green, shoving them into their belts. Jana had also taken a brace of pistols and bags of shot and gunpowder, explaining that her chip contained instructions for priming them.
Dora had been silent since the green. She had wiped the blood from her hands on the grass, but a dull red stain still lingered on her skin, testament to the gory task she had undertaken. She must have inspected thirty bodies, Jana reckoned, in various states. Dora had told them that her brother was not present but Jana could not divine Dora’s feelings on the matter.
While Dora was lost in thought, or possibly shock, Kaz just seemed angry. He stalked along beside Jana, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched, eyes focused ahead. Jana thought maybe he was experiencing a comedown; that the thrill of their adventure had palled once people had started dying.
As the only one of the group who seemed, to her mind, to be coping well with the situation, Jana took it upon herself to try and break the tension.
She took a deep breath. ‘That’s amazing,’ she said.
Dora and Kaz looked at her quizzically.
‘I’ve only noticed it since we left the village, but the smell, the taste of the air,’ explained Jana. ‘It’s so … clean. I shouldn’t be surprised. We’re hundreds of years before the invention of the internal combustion engine, or even steam power. Pre-industrial air.’ She took another breath and smiled widely, not only surprised by the atmosphere, but by her reaction to it. ‘Love it.’
‘The air in your time was most unusual,’ said Dora. ‘It had a taste of … I cannot describe it, but it did not seem natural to me.’
‘Pollution and air conditioning,’ said Jana. ‘Air that has been filled with fumes and then scrubbed clean again.’
‘It was not pleasant,’ replied Dora, pulling a face. ‘But this is normal. This smells of home.’
‘I can’t imagine what it would be like to grow up somewhere so clean,’ said Kaz.
‘This is Carroty Wood,’ she said. ‘James and I would play here when we were children.’
Jana was only half listening, because she had become genuinely involved in what had been conceived as a distraction. Now she tuned into the sounds of the woods and was astonished all over again.
‘The birds,’ she said. ‘Is this chorus usual?’
Dora nodded. ‘Do you not have birds in your time?’ she asked.
‘Not like this, not in New York.’
Dora considered for a moment and said, ‘That is sad, I think. They sing sweetly and taste good.’
Jana was shocked. ‘Taste good? You eat songbirds?’ She had thought there could be nothing more revolting than wild meat, with all its parasites and imperfections. But the idea of tiny wild birds, captured, plucked and stewed, made her feel ill. Just like that, the magic of her new surroundings vanished, replaced by reality, harsh and practical.
‘Do you have predators in these woods?’ asked Jana quietly, remembering that long-extinct animals like wolves and bears were still roaming the land at this point in history.
‘No.’ Dora laughed.
Jana felt a flush of embarrassment and allowed the conversation to falter, but Dora seemed a little less spaced out, and Kaz had managed to speak without growling. Job done.
‘This is where it all started for me,’ said Kaz as Jana forged ahead of them. ‘I was lost at night, on the other side of woods, when I found Sweetclover Hall. It is derelict in my time, as you saw, but I broke in to find shelter. I’d only just got inside when you and Jana dropped in.’
Dora considered her companion. His skin was light brown, his accent strange and his name unfamiliar to her. ‘Kaz, where do you come from?’ she asked.
‘I was born in Poland.’ He registered Dora’s look of confusion. ‘It is a country east of Germany.’ Still confused. ‘Which is east of France.’
Dora nodded slowly. ‘That is very far east.’
Kaz laughed. ‘Yes. Well, my father is Polish, so is my passport.’
‘Pass port?’
‘Official document that tells where you come from. In my time everybody must have one if they want to travel to other countries.’
‘I see, continue.’
‘My mother is Iranian.’ Kaz noticed Dora’s confused look. ‘Sorry, in this time it’s called Persia. She is Persian.’
‘So you come from two different countries,’ she said, shaking her head in wonder. ‘Are the people of Poland brown?’
Kaz smiled. ‘No, but the people of Persia are.’
‘And which language do you speak?’
‘Polish and Farsi, which is the language of Persia.’
‘And English.’ Dora smiled.
He nodded. ‘I also have some French, Spanish, a little bit of German and Russian.’
‘How is it possible to hold so many tongues in your head? Do you not become confused?’
‘Sometimes.’ He laughed. ‘We travelled a lot. My father is kind of a soldier.’
‘And he took you with him on his battle campaigns?’
Kaz shook his head. ‘No, he is a peacekeeper.’
‘I do not understand. He is a soldier who keeps the peace? Like a nightwatchman?’
‘Sort of. In my time, armies sometimes go to countries where there is war and stop the fighting while politicians talk and try to fix things.’
‘Soldiers who fight for peace, not conquest,’ said Dora. ‘It seems to me that your world is upside down. And you travelled with him to these places, even as a child?’
‘My mother was a journalist, so she …’ Kaz registered the look on Dora’s face. ‘You don’t know what a journalist is, do you?’
Dora shook her head.
‘OK. Her job was to travel to interesting places, find out what was going on there and write about it so people at home could read her reports and understand what was going on.’
Dora was incredulous. ‘This is woman’s work?’
Kaz nodded. ‘So she followed my father around the world, reporting on conflicts he was trying to end. She couldn’t go home because in my time Iran is not a great place to be a female journalist, and she wouldn’t stay alone in Poland because she would have died of boredom. She was very passionate about her work, about trying to change the world. So she followed my father, and I followed with her.’
‘And because of this you grew up in many different lands?’
‘All over the world. A year here, a year there.’
‘That sounds very exciting.’
‘It was,’ agreed Kaz.
Dora considered this. ‘If you had asked me yesterday, I would have said that was the most awful thing I could imagine. All I wanted was to stay in Pendarn and raise goats.’
‘But now?’
‘Now, I do not know.’ She shrugged. ‘I have seen much in one short day. I do not know if I could go back to a settled life, even if I were to be allowed. Which I suspect I will not be.’
‘You don’t know that.’
Dora looked at him sideways. ‘You talk about your mother in the past,’ she said.
‘She died.’
‘That is very sad. How old were you?’
‘Your age. Fourteen. After she died my father took me home to Poland and we stopped travelling. But after that things were not so good between us. I suppose he was only trying to protect me, but it was stifling so I ran away and now here I am.’
‘Losing someone from your family is not an easy thing,’ said Dora, laying a hand on Kaz’s arm. ‘I had two brothers. Little Godfrey, who was born after me. He was a sweet boy, kind and funny. I loved him so much. He had the most delightful laugh. But he died. Then James, my older brother, ran away without a word some years later.’
Kaz looked across at Dora and smiled sadly, but did not say anything further. They walked together in companionable silence.
‘Please tell me,’ said Dora after a short while, ‘what is a “headtrip”?’
19
There was snow
in the air; Sarah Predennick could tell that from the dense, low clouds on the horizon. For all the inconvenience it brought – the frozen toes, the struggle to get provisions delivered from the nearby villages and towns, the tiny fissures in the roof that widened and cracked as the snow thawed, and the cascades of meltwater that poured through them when the sun returned – she still felt a flutter of excitement at the prospect. Even now, at forty-two years of age, she had not entirely lost the girlish thrill the sharp white light of a snow-covered landscape gave her.
This year there was another reason to welcome the prospect – it was harder to wage war in winter. A good, deep snowfall would halt the armies in their tracks for a while. It would be a temporary respite, she knew that well enough, but any delay was welcome. Any pause increased the chances, however slim, that cooler heads could prevail and further hostilities could be avoided. Surely a period of enforced reflection would cause Cromwell’s troops to realise their folly and turn away from their godless battle with the king. One long, harsh winter would restore the natural order: such was Sarah’s hope.
So as she stood at the scullery door, her back warmed by the fires within, her face nipped by the frosty air that insinuated its way past her to battle with the heat of the ovens, she welcomed the coming deluge and the serenity she hoped it would deliver.
But she still wished her husband would get a shift on. He should have been by an hour or more ago with the delivery of flour. She strained her eyes, trying to pick out the telltale wobble of his cart as it clattered its way up the track to the house, but try as she might she could discern no movement. Where was he? He was the most punctual man she had ever known, some would have said punctilious, but she valued reliability. And whatever his faults may be – and the good Lord knew they were many and varied – no one could accuse him of failing to take his duties seriously. At least, not since he had forsworn strong drink.
Try as she might to avoid it, a flicker of hope flared in her breast. Maybe he was late because Dora had returned home at last. She pictured him on his cart, rattling out of the village, passing a girl walking in the opposite direction. Maybe he gave a cry of recognition, maybe it was she who cried out, but recognise each other they did. He reined in the horses and jumped down from the cart to sweep his long-lost daughter in his arms, crying with joy as she wept too, begging forgiveness for abandoning them so callously and running away to seek excitement in London.
It was a bitter-sweet daydream, but after a moment Sarah dismissed it with a shake of her head. Dora was gone, that was that. All the wishes in the world would not bring her back, but Sarah could not help pining for her. The fact of her absence was a cruelty that tugged at Sarah’s heart, no matter how much time passed.
Sarah dismissed the maudlin thoughts that so often followed her more benign daydreams. Dora had left home at the first opportunity, run away like so many girls before and so many surely to come, probably to London. What fate had befallen her, Sarah would never know. She would simply have to bear the pain of her loss.
She no longer believed Lord Sweetclover responsible for Dora’s disappearance. She couldn’t imagine what had made her think he was. It was obviously untrue, and the memory of her suspicions made her guilty. At one point she had even believed that there was witchcraft in this house, but now the rumours she had spread caused her nothing but shame. It was so kind of Lord Sweetclover to forgive her. He really was a lovely man, and so trustworthy.
She shook her head again, as if nagged by a passing thought that had slipped from her grasp, then turned away from the doorway and stepped back into the warmth of the kitchen, ready to begin preparing breakfast. There was nothing unnatural going on at Sweetclover Hall. There was no crisis, only a late husband and a lack of flour. Anyway, she could always get a loaf from the freezer. The toaster had a setting for frozen bread, so you’d never know.
She paused at the threshold and turned back, squinting at the horizon one last time. What she saw made her shiver far more than the ice in the air.
A thin skein of smoke was rising into the low clouds.
She gasped and her hand flew to her mouth before she turned and ran into the house, shouting the alarum.
Sarah’s greatest fear had been realised.
War had come to Pendarn.
Lord Henry Sweetclover was woken by Sarah’s cries. There was a dull ache in his head, his bones felt heavy and old, his mouth gummy and foul. He reached over to the other side of the bed, but found it cold. This wasn’t unusual. His wife was an early riser and normally left him to sleep away the morning. Last night’s revelries had been particularly drunken and energetic, so he had expected that she would break her habit and lie in with him as she sometimes did on those occasions when the wine flowed freely. She had proved herself immune to most things, but a hangover was not one of them.
He rubbed his forehead, which made bright flashing lines appear behind his eyes, so he stopped that, groaned and rolled over, burying his face in the pillow, trying to blot out the noise.
He wondered what could have made his wife rise early after such a night. He thought back, trying to recall whether she had given any indication as to her intended business this day, but he could bring nothing to mind. Except, now he thought about it, she had seemed slightly out of sorts earlier the previous day. Her demeanour had worsened throughout the afternoon such that he was sure he was due a long evening of silent reproach and frosty disregard. He was pleasantly surprised when she produced the cards and the wine as the sun was setting, and even more pleased at what followed after. But on reflection there had been an edge to her revelry. A hint of determination, recklessness, enforced jollity covering some deeper worry. He dismissed the thought. She was a woman. Who knew what went on in her mind. Her moods and fancies were as mysterious to him as the sun and the moon, and he knew no good could come of trying to understand her.
Anyway, what had he expected, marrying a witch?
Footsteps clattered across the floorboards on the landing outside but Sweetclover ignored them. The few remaining servants knew what kind of reception to expect if they knocked on his chamber door before midday, so he was confident he would be left alone.
He pulled the pillow up over his head for a second before some halfwit began banging on his chamber door.
Sweetclover growled his frustration, lifted first the pillow then his head, and bellowed, ‘Cease your infernal banging or be hanged.’
The banging stopped. Grunting, Sweetclover lay down his head again. Before he could muffle it with the pillow once more, a voice called tremulously through the door.
‘My lord, the mistress instructed me to tell you that you are required in the reception room. She said it was most urgent.’
That was another disadvantage to marrying a witch, he thought ruefully – the servants are more afraid of her than they are of you.
‘I shall remember this, Oliver,’ Sweetclover yelled as he threw off the covers and shuddered at the sudden cold. ‘I can always find another stable hand, don’t you worry. It would be the tiniest inconvenience to have you filleted and fed to the pigs.’
He immediately regretted yelling, as his head pounded in response. He swung his legs out of the bed and reached for the flagon of water he kept by his bedside. His wife assured him that hangovers were made worse by something called dehydration – which he understood to mean, basically, being thirsty – and had recommended water as the best remedy. He also unstoppered the glass bottle of pills that she had provided him, and swilled a couple down. He loved these tiny medicines, for they made his headaches disappear in a manner most miraculous. Another advantage of being married to a witch – her potions, poultices and pills made life considerably easier.
‘Oh, and tell Goody Predennick to put the coffee on,’ he shouted, hoping that Oliver was still within earshot. He was rewarded by a distant yelp of ‘yes, m’lord’. A good cup of coffee was worth the pain it took to yell the instruction.
Wincing, he shuffled across the carpet t
o the new water closet, sloughing off his nightshirt as he did so. Then he stepped into the stone bathing cubicle, pulled the chain to start the water flowing, and took a nice, hot shower. Of all the innovations his wife had brought to Sweetclover Hall, this was his favourite. At first he had been suspicious of her desire to wash herself each day. He had thought it at best unnatural, at worst unhealthy, and he enjoyed the ripe smell of a comely woman. But his wife had insisted that he take a shower every morning, and anoint himself with strange foaming substances designed to cleanse the skin and rid him of the odours that came naturally to a healthy man. He had resisted at first, but gradually he came to appreciate the sensual pleasure of hot water, the pink freshness of his skin and the invigoration that came from an early morning deluge.
But the most important consideration was that his wife had made a daily shower a condition of intimacy. He did enjoy intimacy.
He stepped from the shower, dried himself with a piece of fresh linen, and applied the various unguents and perfumes that his wife provided. Then he enacted the other ritual upon which she insisted – he used a brush covered in a strange-tasting poultice to massage his teeth and gums until they felt smooth and clean. He found this process far less agreeable than the shower. The feeling of minty foam in his mouth made him want to gag but he had to confess that on mornings such as these it felt good once it was done, even if the process of doing it was fundamentally unpleasant. He spat out the foam and rinsed his mouth with water from the basin.
By the time he re-entered the bedchamber he was starting to feel almost well. He dressed quickly. His wife had tried to persuade him to adopt a different mode of dress, but this had been one step too far. The strange trousers and shirt she’d had their tailor prepare had not felt right to him, and she had smiled and shrugged and said OK. He suspected this was because he remained the public face of the family. Whereas she never left the grounds, he was very occasionally required to travel to Lostwithiel or Portsmouth, where strange clothes would only draw attention to his business, which she insisted remain as secret as possible.
TimeBomb: The TimeBomb Trilogy: Book 1 Page 17
