Then Rupert’s phone rang, and he stepped back from the door to answer it. This gave Math the opportunity to close the door, but he hesitated in order to eavesdrop on Rupert’s conversation.
“What did you say?” Rupert barked into the phone, one hand to his other ear to better hear the person on the other end of the line. Then he looked up, his eyes fixed on Math. “The Black Boar Inn in Caernarfon town? Right.” He disconnected the call.
“I told you the action was in Caernarfon tonight,” Math said, with a grin he couldn’t help.
His grin faded, however, as he closed the door. Rupert was already walking quickly to his car, excitement evident in every step.
Chapter Eleven
Bridget
“Why didn’t you say anything about Clare and King Philip of France when we were back at Dinas Bran?” Peter said. “Lili and Geoffrey need to know.”
Bridget shrugged, feeling hard pressed and helpless. “I couldn’t talk in front of all those people, and I know Callum said something at least to David before he left. We put the pieces together only a few days ago, and he had no chance to talk to anyone about it until we all arrived in Dinas Bran. Clare is in Ireland and Philip in Paris, so it wasn’t something David or Callum thought they could do anything with right now.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Simon said. “I may not be understanding you correctly, but are you suggesting that King Philip would somehow arrange to kill his own emissary to King David? That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if Philip is looking for an excuse to go to war with England, this time with perceived right on his side,” Bridget said.
Simon made an expressive gesture with his hands that reminded Bridget of Geoffrey. “Clare holds lands in Aquitaine and has benefitted from David’s control of the region, not to mention David’s rise to the throne of England. He has no reason to help Philip.”
“I know it seems that way,” Bridget said. “I don’t want to be dramatic, but we know from past behavior that Clare has always looked after himself first and foremost. Remember the Barons’ War.”
Bridget didn’t have to elaborate to Simon or Peter about that. England’s Barons’ War was recent history here. Twenty-five years earlier, Clare, Simon de Montfort, and Llywelyn had become allies with the plan that, upon the defeat of King Edward, they would split Britain among them. Clare, however, only a few months after signing the treaty, switched sides, turning against Montfort and ensuring his death and defeat. What Clare did seemed crazy to Bridget, since Montfort was winning at the time. Edward must have promised him something really good, though it was hard to imagine what could have been better than half of England. Perhaps Philip had done the same.
“Clare and Philip have never been closely connected,” Peter said. “Even if Clare decided to betray David, doing it with Philip defies reason, no matter what Philip might have offered him.”
“Maybe,” Bridget said, “but if David has to go on Crusade with King Philip, he leaves his throne unattended.”
“That might be good for King Philip if he wants David close by so he can murder him, but why would it be good for Clare?” Simon said.
“He could be king, given the right backing,” Bridget said. “He’s one of England’s most powerful barons.”
“He’s England’s most powerful baron, full stop,” Simon said.
“Still, I have a hard time believing Clare would be so half-arsed about it,” Peter said. “He strikes me more as the type to arrange his scheme so everything falls into place at the same moment.”
“If you don’t believe Clare would betray David over his power in England, how about Ireland?” Bridget said.
Peter grunted. “That’s more likely.”
“Before David goes off on crusade,” Bridget said, “he really is going to have to deal with what’s going on there.”
“If the issue is Ireland, however,” Peter said, “it isn’t just Clare who could rise up against David when he starts reining his barons in.”
Sometimes Bridget could hardly believe it was she who was having this conversation with Peter. The word poorly wasn’t an adequate description of how she’d done in school, which was one reason she’d left at sixteen. She’d loved reading, but she’d had to sneak her books up to her room underneath her coat and many homework assignments had been left undone because her mother hadn’t liked seeing her with her nose in a book all the time, thinking it was a bad way to attract a man.
Once she’d left school, her mum couldn’t stop her from reading a thousand free ebooks on her mobile phone, and access to books was probably the one thing she missed most. She hoped that someone on that bus would think about loading up a phone with books. They would need electricity to power it, but if put in airplane mode, it wouldn’t have to be charged very often.
When she’d mentioned to Callum that she couldn’t really be the person he wanted to manage his spy network centered in Shrewsbury, he’d scoffed at her, accusing her of denigrating her talents in an unbecoming way.
“I mispronounce words all the time because I’ve only ever seen them written,” she’d said.
“At least you’ve seen them written,” Callum said.
“I left school at sixteen!”
“And our esteemed King David left at fourteen.”
Bridget had shaken her head. “He doesn’t count. He’s a genius.”
Callum had looked her in the eyes and replied, “Here, you can become what you choose to be. Like he has.”
It was probably those words from Callum, more than anything else, that had made her get off that bus. Even if things didn’t work out with Peter, it had still been the right decision to stay.
Peter waved a hand, as if smoke instead of conversation had obscured the air. “Does Clare have estates close by?”
“No,” Bridget said.
“That isn’t helpful,” Peter said.
“It isn’t, is it?” Then her brow furrowed. “But you know, it wouldn’t have to be a place he owns. He could be visiting an ally, staying as a guest somewhere. What if he’s working with the Mortimers? They’re close by at Montgomery.”
“A conspiracy that includes King Philip, Clare, and Edmund Mortimer?” Peter said. “I don’t believe it.”
“You don’t want to believe it,” Bridget said.
“Do you know how many little hamlets we’re talking about searching through?” Peter said. “It’s twenty-five miles as the crow flies just from Llangollen to Shrewsbury.”
“I know.” Bridget said. “Clare’s all the way down in Gloucester, but he could have sent men this far.”
Hoof beats pounded on the road, a much louder sound than had heralded the arrival of the messenger from Lili back at the bus hanger at Llangollen. They turned to see a company of ten coming up the southern road. It was Cadwallon returning from the hunt. He reined in and dismounted.
“What do you have for us?” Peter said.
Bridget didn’t object to him taking charge. For all that David intended for women to take their place in society as men’s equals, they weren’t exactly there yet. Cadwallon would feel more comfortable reporting to a man, and truthfully, while she knew a great deal about the local region and its politics, Peter was the detective.
“Many riders travel this road every day,” Cadwallon said, “but nobody saw a company of masked men. Nobody knows of any marauders holed up in the forest attacking travelers—not within ten miles of this spot.”
Peter studied Cadwallon for a moment. Bridget didn’t know what Peter was thinking, but she had to struggle to keep the dismay out of her expression. Like Justin, Cadwallon was more than able as a commander. Given his long recovery from William de Bohun’s attack many years ago, he had the respect of his men. He was loyal, brave, and true, which was exactly what King Llywelyn needed in the captain of his teulu. But he didn’t have a devious mind, and he wasn’t the best man to send to track down criminals. He couldn’t think like them if his life depended on it.
“Did
you ask if anybody saw an unusual number of riders on the road, in groups or alone, whether or not they wore masks?” Peter said.
Cadwallon frowned. “I suppose several people mentioned an unusual number of riders on the road. I didn’t think anything of it because they weren’t masked, and it is Christmas Eve. Many people are traveling today.”
“Did they say where the men were going?” Bridget said.
“A farmer’s wife near Chirk mentioned seeing riders along the road towards Whittington.”
“You traveled far,” Bridget said, trying to make Cadwallon feel better about the fruitlessness of his search.
“Many miles, but not all in one direction,” Cadwallon said, half-apologetically, as if it would have been possible for him to cover more than ten or fifteen miles in the few hours since the attack. “Lord Samuel was charged with riding east and north. We headed west first, and then turned south before doubling back and riding up the road from Shrewsbury.”
Cadwallon’s English was passable, but Lili had been wise to send him to search primarily in Wales for sign of the bandits rather than England.
“Thank you for your help,” Peter said. “We’ll take it from here. I’m sure Queen Lili and Lord Geoffrey would like a complete report.”
“Surely you’re coming back to the castle too?” Cadwallon reflexively checked the sky. It was covered with clouds and completely darkened.
Bridget pulled her hood closer around her face and cinched tighter the scarf under her chin that held it in place. She was glad for her wool mittens too. Various people had told her that she would eventually get used to being cold all the time, but it hadn’t happened yet, and she didn’t believe now that it ever would. She’d started her store in part so she’d have better access to higher quality wools to keep herself warm.
“We’ll head south,” Peter said.
Cadwallon raised his eyebrows. He could probably count on one hand the number of nights he’d spent in England in his whole life.
“Please tell Samuel which direction we’re going,” Bridget said. “Maybe we can get as far as Whittington tonight. It’s what? Five miles from here?”
“A little more by the road.” Peter nodded at Cadwallon, who departed with his men.
Bridget watched him go. “Poor Cadwallon. It never occurred to him that the bandits would have removed their masks.”
“I’m glad to know there are men like him in the world. It gives me hope for humanity.” Peter boosted Bridget onto her horse and then mounted his own.
Simon held their only torch, its bottom end tucked into the spear rest near his right knee, and the light flickered in the wind. He urged his horse a little faster, taking the lead in order to light the road ahead. Bridget allowed her horse to pick its way among the ruts and rocks, staying just to Peter’s left so his sword arm remained unhindered by her presence. Silence fell between them. She and Peter seemed to have exhausted the topic of their search for now until they had more information to go on, and she struggled for something else to say.
Finally, she decided she had nothing to lose by taking the bull by the horns and pressing him on the only thing they hadn’t yet discussed. “Are we going to, you know, talk about what happened?”
Peter frowned. “What do you mean? We’ve been talking about it.”
“Not about the ambush. About the fact that I—” Bridget made an exasperated sound, “—kissed you.” The last words came out in a whisper, and she glanced ahead, hoping Simon hadn’t overheard her. She’d felt relaxed and comfortable with Peter today, but if he didn’t say something soon about how he felt about her, she was going to scream.
“Is there—” he stopped. “Are you sorry?”
“No!”
“Oh, good. I’m not either.” Peter clicked his teeth at his horse, directing him to skirt a puddle that took up the full width of the road.
Bridget had to fall back to follow him, shaking her head and glad, for once, that he wasn’t looking at her. All the stewing around in her brain she’d done in the last few hours about this gesture or that reference, fearing that he regretted his decision to stay in the Middle Ages—and it turned out he was totally oblivious to anything she was feeling.
Peter slowed his horse to wait for her to clear the puddle, which again was a good sign and, as she came abreast, she decided to try one more time. “Are we, you know, together?”
“Er—” Peter flicked his gaze in her direction for approximately a third of a second. “Is that what you want?”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
“I do too.” He relaxed into his saddle. “So then it’s settled.”
Bridget shook her head. If she’d known it was going to be that easy, she would have kissed him months ago.
Chapter Twelve
David
When Callum’s phone rang, David had been examining Tesco’s Christmas display of chocolate, all of which was on fifty-percent-off sale now that it was Christmas Eve. The Tesco was afraid it wouldn’t sell out in the last few hours before the store closed.
“We should buy it all.” Cassie started to load up her cart, which already had in it—among other things—ten cell phones; a host of pills, lotions, and other medical supplies; three boxes of lip balm for Bronwen; neodymium magnets in various sizes; ziplock bags; every pair of reading glasses in the store; dozens of packages of rubber bands; and duct tape. A second cart held two laptops, a wireless printer, and several reams of paper.
David grinned. “Think what an amazing gift one of these will make to a visiting dignitary.” Then he paused. “I almost hate to ask, but … you’re sure—now that you’re here—about coming home? If you do return, this is the first time you will have truly chosen it.”
Cassie stopped, a box of chocolate held in each hand. “I know. Callum and I have talked, and we’re ready to go back.” She canted her head, as if she was thinking this through at the same time she was speaking to him. “Maybe it’s growing up on the reservation as I did, but the border between this world and the medieval one is more blurred to me than to some of the others. I don’t feel like this decision is forever—and even if it is, I’m at peace with it.”
“And your grandfather? What did he say?”
“We’ll be talking more, but he told me that he knew it was me before he even picked up the phone,” Cassie said. “To call him on Christmas means a lot to both of us. Thank you for giving me that opportunity.” She smiled at him with tears blurring her eyes again.
David found himself swallowing hard. “Don’t think I’m not grateful to you both.”
“I told my grandfather that Callum and I are going to name his grandchild, if it’s a boy, after him.”
David was so stunned he couldn’t actually speak.
Cassie laughed. “And don’t worry, I wasn’t thinking of Grandad’s English name, which is Arthur, but his Indian name, ‘gentle spirit’. That’s ‘Gareth’ in Welsh.”
David shook his head. “You two sure know how to keep a secret.”
Still grinning, Cassie said, “How big, by the way, are these generators you want? With all this and them too, will everything fit in the van?”
“Oh sure,” David said, hardly aware of what he was saying. He was more thrilled than he could say that Cassie and Callum were finally going to be parents. He was going to tease Callum about it at absolutely the first opportunity. “They’re like a foot and a half wide—”
“A reporter.” Callum spoke sharply into his phone. “Jesus Christ.”
Cassie, Darren, and David gathered around Callum, who was listening intently. Mark had been left in the rental van, surfing the web on Tesco’s wifi, with the promise that Cassie would bring him tea and biscuits. The Cardiff bus had been safely disposed of, left in a turn out—what Callum called a lay by—on a remote road between Bangor and Y Felinheli, a little village to the west.
Up until now, everyone had been in a good mood. David now knew the source of Cassie’s happiness, while David himself had been
riding high on what he was pretty sure was a combination of pleasure at being back in the modern world, at surviving another brush with death, and at the illicit nature of their current existence.
But now he deflated like a popped balloon. “Oh no.”
Darren’s mouth turned down. “That can’t be good.”
Callum put the phone’s mouthpiece to his chest. “Math’s talking to him right now. I told him we’d get there as soon as we could, but I hope we don’t have to. We need to buy what we have and get back to the van.”
The modern world was set up for buying things. They’d lucked out with this Tesco, which had a broader inventory than some Tescos, and it even had a self-checkout. That meant they didn’t have to talk to anyone about their odd assortment of purchases. Twenty minutes later, with Callum’s bank account several thousand pounds lighter, they were back in the van. Built to seat fifteen passengers, it fit on the narrow Welsh roads hardly better than the giant Cardiff bus.
Cassie sat at the wheel, as was appropriate given her superior driving skills and the fact that she’d scored higher than Callum on the Security Service exam. David busied himself with his phone. Even for his fourteenth birthday ten years ago, before he’d first come to medieval Wales, his mom hadn’t given him a smart phone. It was 2020 now, however, and he hadn’t seen a single dumb phone on the entire rack at Tesco. Maybe nobody made them anymore.
“What do you have for us, Mark?” Callum said.
Callum had hung up the phone with Math, who’d successfully put off Rupert Jones, and then Callum had given everyone a rundown of the conversation, including the last bit about the events at the Black Boar in Caernarfon.
“What do I have for you regarding what? The acquisition of information that will vault the Middle Ages into the twenty-first century or in regards to that reporter outside the clinic?” Mark said without looking up from his laptop.
“The clinic.”
“I’m working on it,” Mark said. “Rupert Jones is a legitimate reporter, writing for The Guardian. I can’t see how our old employer is involved yet, Callum. No way could anyone get here this fast.”
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