Tempus Fugitive

by Nicola Rhodes

  At that very moment, Denny was being whipped to within an inch of his life – as the saying goes – in this man’s name. And Tamar, with that subtle connection that she had with him, could feel every stroke. So she moved with sinuous grace to the throbbing beat that filled the room, every beat seemed to stab the old man to the heart, in time to the lash of the whipfall on Denny’s back.

  The courtiers were sweating; the old king was going purple in the face, fighting for breath and still she danced. ‘It’s nothing but what my darling is suffering at this very moment,’ she thought, ‘and he is a better man than you could ever be if you lived a thousand years.’

  The room seemed to grow dim and through her own pain, the old king’s face swam through a mist, growing larger and larger and with an almost imploring look. Although, whether imploring her to stop or not to stop, was more than she could tell.

  Abruptly the pain ceased, and Tamar faltered in her dance, the impetus suddenly withdrawn. And the music followed her to a halting close.

  In the ensuing silence, the courtiers drew a deep breath of relief and the king fell forward with his head on his knees. Tamar was horrified. All the hate that had welled up inside her had drained away as suddenly as it had come. What had she done? She turned and ran from the room. She was stopped by two guards outside the door who, at a signal from a courtier, took hold of her by the elbows and courteously, but firmly, escorted her back to the harem. She was too distraught to feel the humiliation of her position or to take advantage of it either. They were stopped by a tall personage whom Tamar quite failed to recognize, at first, as the prince. He was on his way to the king it appeared. A war with a neighbouring fiefdom was likely to escalate, it seemed. And to make matters worse, two prisoners had escaped from the dungeons. At this Tamar raised her head (which had been bowed in shame) to listen. The prisoners had evidently had outside assistance. The guards and all the other prisoners had apparently been drugged, and the escapees were nowhere to be found, surely an impossibility unless somebody was hiding them. Tamar caught a strange look on the prince’s face as these facts were related to him. A slight smile was playing about his lips, and he was watching Tamar’s face closely, as if to gauge her reaction. He nodded, as if he was satisfied about something. Then he turned to the guards and gave some rapid orders about the search for the prisoners and the gathering of troops for the impending skirmish. Then he turned on his heel abruptly and left.

  * * *

  The oddest thing about the man who was sheltering them, Denny decided, was that he was apparently not at all afraid of the consequences, which, Denny assumed, would be dire if he was caught. He had heard their story with equanimity and without surprise. Denny had not seen any harm in telling him. What could he do, after all?

  Now that Denny had the Athame back in his possession, he felt invulnerable. (Which he was not of course – only comparatively so. Compared to you, for example – or me. Compared to Tamar, he may as well have been wearing a sign reading “Beat me, bite me, whip me, kill me”. Compared to Tamar he was as vulnerable as a snail out of its shell. Everything is relative.)

  In any case, the man seemed trustworthy enough, and it was a convenient place to hide until he came up with a plan to find Tamar. Much better than using magic in front of Mark, who had probably had as much as he could take anyway.

  They had almost run straight into this man as soon as they had left the prison. He had looked at them curiously for a second and then, just as Denny was about to reach for the Athame, had put his finger on his lip to indicate silence and beckoned them to follow him. It was all the more unlikely, when one considered that they were obvious westerners; even covered in grime, their skin was far lighter than his. Why would he risk so much for the sake of two grubby foreigners? It made no sense, and Denny was initially suspicious. This feeling was much relieved by the food and wine and soft beds and the fact that the man spoke good English. Much better, in fact, than Denny’s own. He heard their story, as I have said, without comment, and then he left them abruptly saying he would be back soon and cautioning them not to stir outside on pain of death. For in the daytime, there would be guards looking for them, he said, and at night there would be bandits.

  Nevertheless, Denny followed him.

  * * *

  Tamar had been dumped, unceremoniously back in the harem, and the guards had scurried away in a great hurry.

  Shortly after this, the harem were informed that they were to be moved. War was imminent, and their lord intended to ride out, therefore his wives and concubines must join him. Tamar had never heard anything so ridiculous. Everything about it was ludicrous. That a man with one and a half feet in his grave should ride out to war, when he had a young son who was perfectly capable. That this old man should expose his women to danger for no good reason. The man did not have the strength to lift a paper knife, let alone raise a sword – or anything else.

  * * *

  On the third day, the women had been living in a tent behind enemy lines, the prince called on his mother. He had come from the battlefield he said, and he looked it. He strode in resplendent in scarlet, his cloak flying out behind him. No longer did he seem even remotely civilised, he had thrown off the veneer of a western education and looked like what he was, a savage, a tiger among men, a King. He reminded Tamar of his father.

  He stayed only a short time, talking urgently with his mother, and then he left, casting a dark look at Tamar as he passed her.

  A few minutes later the king’s first wife and Tamar’s only friend in the harem (for the other women were not past jealousy) sauntered casually over to her. There was nothing unusual in this, for she often came to talk to Tamar, being the only one who did. The other women did not even raise their eyes, and Tamar assumed that she wanted to talk proudly of her son, as she often did. She was, therefore, surprised, when the woman whispered to her. ‘I have a message for you, from my son.’

  Tamar raised her eyebrows.

  ‘You are to meet him tonight, at midnight. I will show you where.’ She would say no more, and shuffled quickly away. Tamar was not altogether surprised at this assignation; she believed she understood. Well, she would go. She would just have to quickly disabuse him of any notions that he had formed in regard to her. But it might just turn out to be just what she had been waiting for. An opportunity.

  * * *

  The king’s wife led her to the appointed spot and left her there, under the shade of a tree, the name of which, not being a botanist, Tamar did not know. It was hot, not the faintest breath of a wind disturbed the branches above her, yet she felt a chill, she thought she was observed. And then she saw him. He was sat on horseback just about twenty yards away, looking straight at her. He was bathed in moonlight, and she could see him clearly, but she realised that he could not see her, as she was in shadow.

  She took the opportunity to study him. He was dressed in a long scarlet robe, and she could just make out from here, the hawk like curve of his nose. He sat the horse with such stillness that she wondered for a moment if he were a statue. The animal was clearly under his complete control.

  There was a power in him that she could sense from here. It was not arrogance though, nor just simple physical strength. It was something else, something less definable –something that had nothing to do with his rank. He was a man that men would always follow, that rarest of things, a born leader.

  Suddenly he seemed to make up his mind. He kicked the horse and turned it toward her and began to gallop straight for her. He had seen her after all. It was such a magnificent sight, that Tamar felt her heart give a treacherous flutter as he bore down on her, robes flying out behind him. Such a flutter as her heart had never given before for anybody but … Denny? As he swerved the horse around slowing to scoop her up behind him, she looked into his face. Surely those were Denny’s eyes, looking out of that dark, handsome face.

  * * *

  They had planned it between them, Denny explained. Although the Prince, could not have k
nown just how complete Denny’s disguise would be. Denny laughed when he thought of it. He told her most of what had happened, glossing over his ordeal in the prison hastily, and neglecting to mention that his wounds from the beating, that she seemed, to his surprise, to be aware of, had not yet healed. He had become himself again, before they went to pick up the waiting Mark. And Tamar was glad of it. It had been unnerving to hear Denny’s voice coming from the unfamiliar face of the prince.

  ‘He had already seen you,’ Denny told her, sat around a campfire after some hours riding. ‘And when he heard our story, he knew who you must be. I have to admit, we probably couldn’t have done it without him. We only had the vaguest idea of where you might be, but he knew. He got us into the army, and it was funny to think of all those guards looking for us, when we were right under their noses. And you know the rest.’

  ‘How much does he know?’ She indicated the sleeping Mark. He was an awkward rider, being new to it, and their progress had been slow, and he had found it tiring, as most new riders did. He would ache in the morning.

  ‘Only as much as is good for him,’ Denny assured her.

  ‘What are we going to do about him?’

  Denny shrugged and the robe slipped off his shoulders revealing the angry welts on his back and shoulders.

  Tamar gasped. ‘Oh my God! Denny, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Oh, I’m okay,’ said Denny, hastily covering up again. ‘The Athame doesn’t heal, you know. But it’s not so bad now.’

  ‘But I can heal you, even if the Athame can’t. You really should have told me you were still hurt.’

  ‘Don’t fuss.’

  She gave him a look.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he gave in and bared his back. ‘Leave the black eye for now,’ he said. ‘We don’t want Mark Whatisname wondering.’

  ‘Which brings us back to my original question,’ said Tamar. ‘What are we going to do about him? How are we going to get him home?’

  ‘Would …? No never mind.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Would leaving him in his bed, and letting him think it was all a nightmare, work? Silly I know, but …’

  ‘And the fact that he’s been missing from home for a fortnight? You don’t think that somebody might bring it up? His mum, for instance.’

  ‘Are you saying you can do it? Alter his memory I mean?’

  ‘Technically, no. But I can wipe away the pain of the last weeks, and without that, the memories would fade on their own. It’s our emotions that keep our experiences alive in our memory’

  ‘So, he could believe it was all a dream?’

  ‘But, Denny. What about the time?’

  ‘I know, I know,’ Denny shook his head sagely. ‘What a pity we can’t go back in time.’*

  *[Mark– somebody was deposited back in his own bed thirteen days before this conversation was to take place, by person or persons unknown. And aside from a severe telling off for staying out all night, suffered no ill effects from his adventure. Tamar and Denny never did find out his full name The file, once closed, naturally, re-opened at the same entry point as before. Thus proving Tamar’s theory of how the files worked to be the correct one]

  ~ Chapter Seven ~

  ‘Vikings?’ snorted Denny in disgust. ‘What is this, a school trip?’

  ‘Shhh, they’ll hear you,’ Tamar pulled him behind a bush. ‘We don’t want to get tangled up with these bozos, believe me.’

  ‘Dangerous are they?’

  ‘Well, I suppose so, not to us though. No, what I mean is they’re idiots. Imagine Bart Simpson, grown up and crossed with a Mill-Wall supporter and you’re getting close.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And talk about sexist! They make Australians look PC.’

  ‘Ah,’ Denny nodded, sagely. ‘Gave you a hard time, did they?’

  Vikings they were – about 30 of them, give or take, but making enough noise for 100 at least. Most of them were drunk, and all of them were fighting. Even Denny was unnerved at the casual way they were knocking seven kinds of shit out of each other. The fact that they were doing this with broadswords instead of their fists just made it bloodier, and not any less like a drunken brawl, which it clearly was. They did not even seem particularly angry. Apparently this was just a typical Saturday night.

  ‘Did they always act like this?’ asked Denny, watching in fascinated horror as a bloody head rolled within two feet of him.

  ‘Oh no, only when they’d been drinking, they stopped when they went to sleep.’

  ‘You know, I read that the Vikings were like this, but I always thought it was, you know, popular prejudice, exaggeration, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh they’re not so bad when they’re sober. I mean you’re right in a way, all the accounts you’ve ever read were written by the people they plundered. Naturally they were prejudiced. They usually only get drunk after a raid, not during it. Add to that, the fact that the only people who could write in these times were the clergy and what you get are grossly inflated accounts of their vicious barbarism.’

  ‘Grossly inflated? Look at them! That one’s just chopped off that guy’s arm!’

  ‘Like I said, they’re drunk. Besides, they didn’t do that to villagers, there’s no sport in it, if they’re not fighting back.’

  ‘C’mon, let’s get out of here,’ she added.

  ‘I’m glad you said that, I had a horrible feeling you were going to suggest we try to break it up.’

  Tamar shuddered. ‘Not this time. I hate these guys. I hope they all kill each oth …’

  Denny and Tamar looked at each other in shock. What had interrupted her was the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

  Or it could have been a car backfiring, but in either case …

  ‘Isn’t it a bit too early for firearms?’ asked Denny, king of the obvious.

  ‘Oh, only about four hundred years or so, nothing really.’

  ‘Tamar, is this the time for sarcasm?’ What the hell does it mean?’ is Askphrit here?’

  ‘I can’t sense him, but he may have been here. Have you got any Nordic ancestors that you know of? You are very blond.’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘It probably doesn’t matter. He’s not here now anyway, and maybe he never was. This anachronism is just an example of what can happen when you get unauthorised people running around in history, changing God knows what. We’ll probably get back to discover that the flintlock was invented in the Stone Age.’

  ‘But it wasn’t.’

  ‘Not when we left,’ she agreed. ‘But now – who knows? We’re going to have to expect to see this kind of thing, and sometimes it’ll probably be our fault. No matter how careful we try to be.’

  ‘But we haven’t been to the Stone Age,’ Denny pointed out.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Tamar darkly.

  Denny tried to figure this one out and gave up. ‘So what do we do?’ he said.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do, not here. We just have to keep looking for Askphrit. That’s what we’re here for.’

  A horrible thought struck Denny. ‘What if we’re too late?’ he asked. ‘I mean, what if he’s already … I mean, what if we get back, after we catch him, and I’m, you know, erased. You can’t keep the world frozen forever, just in case.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Tamar frowned as she tried to work out this temporal conundrum. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. I don’t know, let me work on it.’

  ‘And what are you planning on doing when we catch him anyway?’

  ‘Got to catch him first.’

  Without warning, at least without specific warning – after all, with their luck, they were always only a step away from disaster at any given time. As Denny said later, ‘we should have expected it.’ A drunken Viking came hurtling toward them sword upraised making a noise like, according to Tamar, “a constipated dinosaur.”

  ‘How would you know?’ Denny actually found time to ask. ‘That was before even your time.’ Tamar shook her head sa
dly. ‘So innocent,’ she said enigmatically. ‘Mind his head,’ she added absently as Denny stepped aside lightly allowing the Viking to crash headfirst into a tree.

  Apparently unhurt, he resumed his attack; Denny rolled his eyes in a manner very reminiscent of Tamar’s usual fashion.

  ‘You’d better fight him,’ Tamar told him, ‘if you don’t he’ll just keep coming. Believe me, I know these idiots.’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt him.’

  ‘You won’t, just stick to hitting him on the head.’

  Denny shrugged and squared up to the enraged Viking, who did not know it, but who was about to get the pummelling of a lifetime …

  Or not.

  Denny raised his hands gingerly and clasped them behind his head. From behind him, he heard the soft click of the safety catch. He turned around slowly.

  * * *

  ‘From this to Abba,’ said Denny. ‘I don’t know which was worse. Hey Bjorn,’ he yelled. ‘Where are the rest of the “Masters of the Universe”?’

  Tamar gave him a questioning look. She was tied to the mast, and most of her other looks had been considerably more eloquent – and vicious. Denny was trying to make her smile, and not so far succeeding. She blamed him for all this, he knew, but being shot in the head would have been an inconvenient development, he felt. Particularly trying to explain why he had not actually died from it.

  ‘Well, doesn’t he look like “He Man”, to you?’ he explained.

  Tamar grinned. ‘By the power of Greyskull,’ she giggled.

  Denny relaxed; Tamar did not often sulk, preferring to deal out mayhem on a democratic basis when she was crossed. But when she did, she was unbearable.

  The Conan look-alike strode over to Denny. ‘How do you know my name?’ he demanded. Tamar stifled a laugh.

  Denny shrugged. ‘Wild guess,’ he suggested.

  Tamar snorted.