Lost in Time_Split-Second Time Travel Story 1

by Ken Johns

  “Open the door!” she called to the porter.

  The horse sped up a bit. Shit. The porter had made no move to open the door, and the horse was heading straight for the wall of wood.

  She recognized the porter. What was his name?

  “Claude! Ouvrez la porte!”

  Claude moved, but he swung open the small door within the larger one. She’d expected the large door to be opened, but the horse didn’t care. It continued straight toward the tiny opening. Its head would barely clear the archway. She bent forward and put her head next to the horse’s neck. The horse’s hooves clattered on the cobblestones of the narrow passage. The crossbow on her back dragged along the stone ceiling, but then they were clear.

  The outer bailey was alive with the tournament. She pointed her horse in the direction of the barbican gate and let the animal pick its way through the crowd.

  Captain Henri led his horse out of the gatehouse passage, followed by the other knights who had been in the great hall.

  “And here comes my babysitter,” Mila said to nobody in particular. “Or not,” she added as Henri and his men rode toward the tournament.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  April 29, 1341

  Lady Evelyn climbed into the stands and sat on a cushioned seat under the canopy next to Reginald. As she studied the new construction of the stands, the tilts, the lists, and the multitude of people below her, it finally made sense. Reginald had overextended himself preparing for his tournament, and he saw Chad’s chest of silver as his salvation. He did not believe in witches—he simply wanted to relieve these strangers of their wealth in the basest and most opportunistic way. Her brother had a silly grin pasted to his lips. And why wouldn’t he, thinking he would soon possess this windfall?

  The crowd cheered as the main event of Reginald’s tournament began. They stood ten deep around the lists, everyone anxious to see the infamous Raymond de Falaise face the English legend, Sir Wessex. Raymond stopped his horse at the base of the stands, bowed toward Reginald, and smiled and waved toward the masses. The crowd went wild.

  Wessex slowed his horse and stopped next to Raymond. He bowed toward Reginald, straightened, and drove a triumphant fist skyward. The crowd grumbled and grew silent.

  Lady Evelyn chuckled. Wessex was not a popular man. Apparently, her assessment of him was shared by the masses. Reginald’s announcements had proclaimed that two champions who had never been unhorsed would meet for the first time. The word must have spread for miles, for it appeared that everyone in the barony had come to witness Wessex’s first fall. Raymond bowed in Wessex’s direction then wheeled his mount and walked to his end of the tilt.

  Wessex ambled his destrier in the opposite direction.

  Raymond closed his eyes and waited while his squire hurried over with a lance, and Lady Evelyn wondered what was going through Raymond’s head in those preparatory moments. When his charger snuffled beneath him and sidestepped, Raymond opened his eyes and raised a hand to the squire. The boy slowed as he neared the animal. Raymond accepted the lance and held it vertically.

  Lady Evelyn waited for Raymond to look in her direction. When he locked eyes with her, she bowed her head ever so slightly. Raymond nodded and swung down his visor. He had received her message and knew what she wanted of him.

  The umpire dropped the flag, and Raymond spurred his horse. The charger exploded down the lists. The crowd hushed until the only sound was the thumping of hoofs on soft turf. Raymond lowered his lance. The two knights thundered toward each other. As their lance tips met, Raymond deflected Wessex’s skyward, letting his own bounce down to its target. Evelyn caught her breath. If Wessex’s lance failed to rise high enough, Raymond would certainly be unhorsed or killed. But the tip of Wessex’s lance flew past the outside of Raymond’s helm.

  Raymond’s lance cracked and shattered on Wessex’s helm. But the placement had been perfect. Wessex’s head snapped back as he was lifted from the saddle. The splintering shards rained down around him as he fell off the back of his horse. Raymond had already galloped past before Wessex’s armor clanged on the turf.

  The crowd gasped as Wessex tumbled to a stop. Raymond slowly reined in his animal. He stopped at the end of the tilt to watch and wait. He lifted his visor. The fickle crowd was hushed. They always hoped the downed knight would rise. When one of Wessex’s gauntlets twitched, Raymond walked his horse out of the lists.

  As Wessex’s retinue rushed to tend to their fallen master, Lady Evelyn shook her head. Wessex’s feigned allegiance to Reginald and his potential threat to Mary were one thing. But his bid to usurp the barony had marked him for death. The neck-snapping impact and fall would have killed a weaker man. Wessex had been lucky, but Evelyn would not rest until he breathed no more.

  After being treated so disgracefully, Edward wandered through the crowds, unwilling to sit in the stands with Reginald. Who did this cretin of a baron think he was dealing with? Edward was not some begging friar to be turned away without a second thought. As he walked among the pavilions, he heard the crowd grow silent then gasp and scream. He wondered absently which knight had been unhorsed. It mattered not. There was always another knight waiting in the lists to ride out and take the place of whichever champion had fallen out of favor. He found himself outside Wessex’s pavilion, and a smile crept onto his lips.

  Edward stepped inside the pavilion to wait. When his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he saw a single wooden chair, a small altar, and a bed that looked like the ground itself might be more comfortable. The man was a monk. This is perfect. The pavilion flaps rustled, and two squires helped Wessex enter.

  “My Lord Wessex. Are you quite well, sir?”

  Wessex stood straight, and his attendants began to unfasten his armor. When the squires had pulled off his gauntlets, he massaged his hands. “Good day, Your Grace. I am not kindly disposed at the moment. As you may have heard, Raymond unhorsed me.”

  “That is most unfortunate.” Edward brought his palms together and bowed his head slightly.

  “Tomorrow my fortunes will change, and my honor will be restored.” Wessex lifted his arms to let the squires unbuckle his cuirass. “I assume you will get to the point of your visit in due time.”

  Edward wanted to ask how Wessex planned to restore his honor but said, “Let me get straight to the matter. You saw the execution turn to disaster last night, did you not?”

  “I did,” said Wessex.

  Edward nodded, emphasizing their shared assessment of the event. “This morning I learned Reginald had the remaining witches in his custody.”

  “Excellent.” Wessex sneered. “I did not think he was equal to the task.”

  “He is not.”

  “Explain.”

  “He wavers. He has lost interest in seeing God’s justice done.” Edward shook his head and raised his eyes to heaven, crossing himself.

  “Will he not execute them?”

  Wessex’s shock pleased Edward greatly. “He negotiates their release. Apparently, they are quite wealthy.”

  “That is disquieting,” Wessex said. “The more I learn of Reginald, the less I like him.”

  Wessex’s sentiment matched Edward’s. This was very promising. “I tried to reason with him. I pleaded with Captain Henri and his knights. I asked if there was anyone in the room who was willing to do God’s righteous work, but my call went unanswered.”

  Wessex shook his head. “I am sorry to hear of it.”

  “At that point my thoughts turned to you, sir.” Now came the dangerous part. Would Wessex agree to the treason Edward was contemplating? Or would he throw him out, or worse, run him through?

  Wessex nodded to his squires. They stopped what they were doing and left the pavilion.

  Finally, Wessex spoke. “I will not act on hints and assumptions, Your Grace. If it is treason you have come for, you will need to speak the words aloud for you and I and God to hear them. If you can do that,” Wessex said, slapping him on both shoulders, “that will be our
pact.”

  Edward nodded. “You have gladdened my heart, sir. I will await you at the cathedral, where we will have privacy. There we can devise a plan that even the king will find satisfactory.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  April 29, 1341

  When Mila found Margaret at the Hanging Cock, she still had the horse they had taken from Annie’s inn. Together, they rode through the town gate and out into the fields. Two well-armed men walked out the gate behind them. Mila expected the baron to send somebody to follow her, but these men didn’t look like castle guards. They reminded her more of Geoffrey the assassin.

  Mila squeezed her horse with her legs, and it trotted up beside Margaret’s mount. “When we reach the forest, we need to go faster.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to put some distance between us and those two.” Mila nodded behind her.

  Margaret studied the two men. “How did they come to want you?”

  “I think the bishop may have hired them.”

  Mila followed Margaret for what seemed like hours along the Roman road. The sun was long gone, and the moon barely penetrated the forest canopy, but Margaret rode confidently through the night, the steady jingle of her horse’s harness somehow reassuring in the dark. Remembering the wolves, Mila asked if they could have a torch, but Margaret said that wasn’t a good idea. Not only would it attract every forest robber for miles, but also, they didn’t have one. Margaret’s matter-of-fact manner made Mila smile in the dark.

  Finally, Margaret reined in and dismounted. “This is the place.”

  “Okay. Um, how do I get off?”

  “Honestly, Mila, how did you get on the horse?”

  Mila shrugged. “A nice little guard showed me.”

  “Unhook one of your feet, swing it over the back of the horse, and lower yourself down.”

  Mila dismounted, thankful it was too dark for Margaret to see the flush that came to her cheeks. Getting off the horse had really been quite easy. They led their horses off the trail into the woods and felt their way up the forested slope about a hundred meters before tying their reins to a tree. Mila pulled her crossbow off her back and loaded it. “I’ll take first watch.”

  April 30, 1341

  “Wake up.”

  Mila’s eyes popped open.

  “I heard something,” Margaret whispered in Mila’s ear. She stood and stepped to the edge of the old oak under which they sheltered. She hefted a short length of wood over her shoulder like a bat and peered out at the dawn mist.

  Mila stood to load her crossbow. The gray sea of icy air swirled around her. She could barely see three trees in any direction. Down the slope something moved through the undergrowth, disturbing the quiet. A repeated crunch grew closer, and louder. Someone’s attempt at stealth had the exact opposite effect.

  Mila shouldered her weapon and aimed out at the mist. A dark man-shape appeared through the gray. It walked straight toward their tree and gradually became recognizable as one of the assassins that had followed them out of town. The man wore chain mail with two swords sheathed on his back. He held a longbow with an arrow already knocked. How had he found them so easily—and where was his companion? She could shoot this one easily as he approached but wasn’t sure she could reload in time if the other was nearby.

  One of Mila’s horses let out a short whinny. The assassin must have heard the horse because he turned toward the sound. If he kept moving in this new direction, he would miss their tree. Maybe he didn’t know where they were? But she couldn’t let him get near the horses: with him moving sideways across her field of view, it would be a harder shot. She’d missed the only moving shot she’d tried, and the bishop had… Stop it. Lead the target. But how far? If she could somehow get him to stand still…

  “Hey!”

  The assassin stopped and lifted his bow in her direction.

  Mila fired and ducked behind the tree as his arrow whistled past her head. She was rewarded with a grunt, and she snuck a look around the tree. The man stared at the bolt in his chest as he toppled forward.

  The other assassin came thundering through the forest on Margaret’s side of their tree. Mila caught a glimpse of him, wielding a giant sword, but she forced herself to reload instead of run. She dropped the foot loop to the ground. Placing one foot in the loop, she bent both knees, hooked the string, and straightened her legs. The string came up and latched in place.

  The man was almost upon them. Shit. Breathe.

  “I can’t!” Margaret dropped her club and ran the other way.

  Mila slipped a bolt into the slot.

  The assassin bounded around the tree with his sword swinging down at her. With no time to raise the weapon to her shoulder, she fired from the hip, and the bolt penetrated his throat and continued up into his skull. She sidestepped as the giant sword fell past her shoulder, followed by its dead owner.

  Margaret screamed.

  Mila spun toward the sound. “Margaret?”

  Nothing.

  She reloaded, shouldered the weapon, and advanced into the mist. “Margaret?”

  “She’s fine, Lady Mila. Please lower your weapon.” A man’s voice.

  “Why would I do that?” Mila searched the fog.

  “Because I’m sure you don’t want to hurt us.” Sir Raymond walked out of the mist carrying Margaret, one arm behind her back, the other under her knees.

  Mila lowered her weapon. “What happened?”

  “I twisted my ankle.” Margaret offered a shy smile as she gently held on to Raymond’s muscular neck.

  “I fear I may have startled her when I stepped from the fog.” Raymond stopped and lowered Margaret, feet first, to the ground.

  “What are you doing here?” The last time she’d seen Raymond, he’d held his sword to John’s neck.

  “Lady Evelyn sent me to look after you, on your quest. I followed the assassins, but I am embarrassed to say I lost track of them in the fog.” Raymond bowed slightly. “But you seem to have handled yourself rather well. How did you become so skillful?”

  “Never mind that. Help Margaret up on her horse.”

  He helped Margaret limp over to the horses.

  “That one.” Margaret pointed at her spotted mount and giggled. She swung her leg over as he lifted her onto its back, but her fingers lingered along his sleeve as he stepped back out of reach. “Thank you, Sir Raymond.”

  Was Margaret that enamored with him? Mila remembered Raymond preparing to be in the tournament. Was he a jousting star? Did they even have stars in 1341? Perhaps he was a local celebrity. He was certainly a master of the sword. Mila smiled at Margaret’s medieval fangirl crush and rolled her eyes.

  Raymond stepped back from Margaret’s horse, his eyes coming to rest at the brand on its hindquarters. He reached up and gently patted the horse’s flank. To Mila he said, “It is a fine animal. How did you come by it?”

  “Why?” She took an involuntary step back. It was the horse they had stolen from Annie’s inn. Surely it wasn’t Raymond’s too…

  Raymond breathed out slowly. “It is no matter.”

  Mila decided to let it go. “Are you here to help, or are you here to look out for Lady Evelyn’s interests?”

  He smiled. “What can I do to help, Lady Mila?”

  “Answer the question, for starters.” Mila crossed her arms over her chest.

  “At the moment, Lady Evelyn’s interests are aligned with your own. Next time we see her…” Sir Raymond shrugged. “Who can say?”

  He seemed to have some insight into Lady Evelyn’s ability to change her mind, but he was still her man. Great. Now she had a babysitter who would report her every movement back to Lady Evelyn at the first opportunity. At which point he might be informed that their goals were no longer “aligned.”

  Mila raised an inner eyebrow. In theory, all she had to do to keep Raymond on her side was keep him from reporting to Lady Evelyn. For the first time in days, she was glad that texting hadn’t been invented yet. “Do y
ou think the baron will keep his word if I bring him the treasure chest?”

  “Lady Evelyn says he always chooses what is most advantageous to him.” Raymond adjusted his tunic. “It depends on whether he sees a greater advantage in not keeping his word.”

  “He stands to gain a great deal of money. What could be more advantageous than that?”

  “Your father has proven himself to be a formidable swordsman. If the baron fears your father, he may not release him.”

  “What can I do to make him keep his word?”

  “Perhaps you should find the chest.” Raymond smiled. “Then you will have a position of strength from which to bargain.”

  Raymond was right. She took the reins of her horses and led them down the slope toward the road. She only hoped she could figure out where Jess had hidden the chest. Margaret nudged her horse down the hill after Mila. Raymond excused himself to retrieve his own mount.

  When Mila neared the road, she retied her animals. She found the deep grooves in the mud where the carriage had been parked. With that position in mind, she peered back up the slope at the forest.

  “Margaret, you look that way.” She pointed to her right. “Check behind every tree, and crisscross back and forth as you go up. I’ll go this way.” Raymond joined them, and she set him to work on a central quadrant that overlapped the sections she and Margaret searched.

  Mila went from tree to tree, keeping her head down and looking for any sign of disturbed earth. The higher she went, the more doubt crept into her psyche. Was she completely wrong? If Henri was to be believed, as Lady Evelyn insisted, the chest had to be here. This was the only place Jess would have had time to hide it. But where? Half the morning gone and still no sign of it.

  She stopped and looked down at the road. She sat and tried to will the location to reveal itself. Her gaze drifted across to the other side of the road, where the forest continued.

  Of course.

  Mila ran down the hill. The others heard her rustling through the undergrowth and came to investigate.