Guardians of Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  In the darkness and the snow, though it was falling more gently in their spot within the shelter of a tree that overhung the driveway, they waited for the callback.

  “I can practically see the tech’s fingers flying over the keyboard, trying to trace our call,” Callum said.

  “They won’t be able to. I may be rusty, but I’m not out of the game yet,” Mark said.

  “The question before us,” Callum said, “is how they will view my return. It seemed to me the operator wasn’t wholly surprised at my call.”

  “They’ve interviewed the bus passengers by now,” Mark said. “They have to have known you were here, and the fact that you are calling now could be taken as a good sign that you’re ready to come in again.”

  Another minute passed before the call button finally started flashing on Mark’s screen. Callum took in a deep breath and then nodded to Mark, who pressed talk.

  “Sir,” Callum said.

  “Can we dispense with preliminaries?” Tate’s voice reverberated out of the speaker, deep and commanding—and not unlike Callum’s in tenor and tone.

  “Certainly,” Callum said.

  “We’ve interviewed the bus passengers at the Black Boar. I’ve personally spoken to Jane and Carl Thomas,” Tate said.

  “How is Shane?” Callum said.

  Tate paused for a count of three, which was a really long expanse of silence over a phone line. “You did the right thing bringing them back.”

  David felt the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding ease out of him. Yes, they had done the right thing. It gave him some reassurance as to Tate’s motives and character that he knew it too.

  “Where’s the bus?” Tate said, back to business.

  “Parked on a rural road, out of the way,” Callum said.

  “What are you driving?”

  “Let’s save that for later.” Callum then cut straight to the point. “Have you caught the men who bombed Cardiff’s city hall and courthouse?”

  “What—” Tate paused. “That’s what you’re calling about?”

  “One of the bombers—perhaps even the man behind it—was on the bus with us when we traveled to the Middle Ages. His name is Lee Delaney, or at least that was the name he went by with us. He returned to this world three months ago. You should know that already because of the flash when he entered.”

  Tate grunted into the phone. “Yes. We did notice that. He came alone?”

  It sounded to David as if the words were departing Tate’s mouth with extreme reluctance.

  “No. There should have been two flashes, one right after the other.”

  Tate grunted his assent. “We saw that. We didn’t know what it meant.”

  “Did you send men to the scene?”

  “We did,” Tate said.

  “Where’d Lee come in?” David said in a whisper to Callum, who then repeated the question to Tate in a louder voice.

  “In the middle of the Menai Strait, near the Caernarfon end. But by the time the Coast Guard arrived, he was gone.”

  The expressions on Callum’s and Mark’s faces were as blank as David’s had to be. The Menai Strait was a dangerous body of water under many circumstances, but it was also swimmable in some locations. That David had dropped Lee off in Wales meant that he could still be close by. David’s stomach churned at the sickening thought.

  “Perhaps he swam for shore,” Callum said.

  “If so, we didn’t find him—but of course, it took a while for agents to reach the site, and we didn’t know who or what we were looking for until now. I’d like to ask why you believe Lee Delaney was the culprit in the bombings.”

  “He brought C-4 to the Middle Ages with him,” Callum said.

  Tate drew in an audible breath and then said, “None of the bus passengers mentioned that. You need to come in.”

  “I can’t do that, sir,” Callum said.

  “We mean you no harm,” Tate said. “Surely you must see that.”

  “How are the bus passengers?” Callum said, changing the subject. “What have you done with them?”

  “We haven’t done anything with them. We interviewed many of them tonight, as I said.” Tate gave a tsk through his teeth. “The inconsistencies in their stories are large enough to drive a bus through, though they’re in agreement that they spent the last year in the Middle Ages. How’s David? They did all say that he’s here with you.”

  Both Mark and Callum glanced at David, who gave a short laugh.

  “He’s fine,” David said into the microphone.

  “We’d like to meet with you and your father,” Tate said.

  “I’d love a working relationship with you,” David said, “but so far you haven’t given me any reason to trust you.”

  There was another few seconds of silence on Tate’s end, and then he said, “Mistakes were made.”

  “Yeah, lots of them over a long period of time,” David said. “Appointing Callum as director of the Project was a great idea, but how long did that last? Two years and then, when push came to shove, you bailed on him.”

  “Political realities—”

  “Become my problem when they’re your problem. I understand that,” David said. “These days I know all about politics. I’m having issues with the King of France and the Pope, for starters. It would be nice if I got help from you every time I showed up here instead of being chased halfway across Wales—or worse, locked in a windowless room.”

  “Young man—”

  “I’m the King of England,” David said. “You may call me sire or not at all.”

  Callum put a hand on David’s shoulder while Mark muted the call.

  “Sorry,” David said. “He was ticking me off.”

  “I noticed,” Callum said.

  “What about a trade?” Mark said. The connection to Tate was still muted.

  Callum eyed him. “What kind of trade?”

  “Offer to trade me and everything I know about the Middle Ages, including the traveling David and his family do, for a couple of microhydro generators and an industrial magnet. I think I should get you guys a couple more Kevlar vests too, since David’s is still buried in the rubble at Canterbury. They also need to promise not to prevent your return to the Middle Ages when you’re ready to go,” Mark said, “and not to interfere with Ted and Elisa’s return to the United States.”

  David goggled at him. “Mark, no—”

  “I want to stay here. Tate will see our agreement to this as a huge concession on our part, but this is no sacrifice for me. I’ve done okay back there, but in the hours we’ve been here, I have come to realize that I’m a modern man.” He hefted the laptop. “This is what I do. Just as when Callum and Cassie were left behind, I can help you more from here than from there.”

  Callum pressed his lips together, ignoring the “Callum? Callum?” coming from the speaker, and David said, “Mark—”

  “Let me do this, sire.”

  “You are a grown man, and neither of us command you here,” David said.

  “And hardly at all there, for that matter.” Callum managed a slight smirk, though his eyes remained troubled.

  Mark pressed talk again. “Sir, this is Mark Jones.”

  “Jones!” Tate was all enthusiasm. “You came too?”

  David noticed that at no point in their conversation had Tate questioned the existence of their alternate medieval universe. Even with the obvious disappearance and reappearance of the bus, David hadn’t necessarily expected such an outcome. People can be stubborn and blind long after it made any sense to be so, and there was no reason Tate couldn’t have chosen that route. He had been involved in the cancelling of Callum’s project after all.

  “Clearly.” Mark’s tone was wry and also confident. David heard in his voice the belief that he could withstand the machinations within MI-5, and that he was making the right choice. “We propose a trade.” And then Mark outlined in detail the brief discussion he’d just had with David and Callum. Rachel had already
packed medical supplies, including a simple microscope her father had kept in storage, in the back of the van, so they didn’t need help with that. “Do we have a deal?”

  “We do. When and where should we meet?” To his credit, Tate didn’t hesitate.

  “Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock.” Mark pressed mute again in order to say to Callum, “How about in the Tesco parking lot?”

  “That’s a sucky spot,” David said before Callum could answer. “A zillion sightlines and no way to cover them all.”

  “It’ll be deserted on Christmas Day,” Callum said.

  “Where won’t be deserted on Christmas Day?” David said.

  “Bangor Cathedral?” Mark said.

  “Lots of civilians there.” David shrugged. “At nine in the morning on Christmas Day, it’ll be the only place in Bangor with people.”

  But Callum shook his head. “I don’t want innocents in harm’s way if Tate’s motives aren’t pure. I have a better idea.”

  He unmuted the call with Tate. “We’ll meet you on the bridge at the motorway interchange just to the west of the Bangor Tesco, heading north right after the exit for Bangor/Caernarfon.”

  “Callum—” David began.

  Callum muted the call again and looked at David. “We’ll bring the van and the bus. We can park the bus on the bridge going north and stop the van farther down the motorway going the other way so Cassie can pull past the meeting site, and we can get in and out quickly if this goes pear-shaped.”

  “Don’t tell Tate that last bit,” David said to Mark, who then pressed talk again and finished Callum’s explanation. Tate agreed and disconnected the call.

  Mark gave a satisfied nod. “If Lee is really here, all the more reason to leave me behind because I know what he looks like. I can help catch him.”

  Callum tapped a finger against his lips. “You always say, David, that you come in where you’re meant to. Up until now, I’ve been assuming we’re here because of your aunt’s family and Rachel’s father.”

  David nodded. “But now you’re thinking we’re here because of Lee.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Llywelyn

  Llywelyn hadn’t stood a watch in many years, but at his own request, Darren had woken him at four, as indicated by the timepiece beside the bed. But even if under normal circumstances he was no longer the one asked to guard a castle, it was an hour that was familiar to him. He and Goronwy had been known to rise this early simply to clear his desk and his mind of all that was required for the successful running of his kingdom.

  Llywelyn had forced David and Christopher, who’d stuck like a leech to David’s side, both of them talking nonstop, away from the computer to go to bed at midnight, and he’d checked on David again before coming outside. He was sound asleep face down on a mattress on the floor on the first floor of the tower. Llywelyn hoped he could stay that way for a few more hours.

  He didn’t even know what time Meg and Elisa had gone to sleep. At midnight, they’d still been up talking, and Llywelyn hadn’t had the heart to shoo either of them to bed. They hadn’t seen each other in more than eight years and might never see each other again. One night without sleep was a small price to pay for the pleasure of reacquainting themselves with one another.

  As he stared up at the tower, silhouetted against the night sky, Llywelyn wished Goronwy could be here to see what had become of his beloved Aber. On one hand, it was good to know the worst. On the other, the Menai Strait still stretched before him, even if these modern meddlers had dredged the Lavan Sands in order to allow large ships to pass through the strait instead of taking the time to go around Anglesey. He believed Meg absolutely when she told him that the Aber River still ran to the west, and his mountains still rose up in the darkness behind the castle. His grandfather had claimed the title, Prince of Wales and Lord of Snowdon, and it was that legacy that had Llywelyn’s boots stuck as deeply in the soil of Wales here as in his own universe.

  The snow had stopped falling sometime before midnight, but as Llywelyn stood watching, it started again, silently settling on his leather hat, which he’d borrowed from Abraham Wolff. The hat had a wide, stiff brim, just right for keeping the snow out of his face.

  “You can keep it if you like.”

  Llywelyn turned to see Abraham standing in the doorway, faintly silhouetted against the electric light glowing from the kitchen, which lay deeper inside the house.

  “You read my mind.” Llywelyn touched the brim with one finger in a silent salute. “I would be grateful.”

  “Anything for my king,” Abraham said in Welsh.

  “Do I hear a touch of irony in your voice?” Llywelyn said.

  Abraham stepped forward out of the doorway and closed the door behind him. “If you did, it was not my intent. My life has been upended in the last twelve hours since Rachel rang me up, but I am blessed beyond measure to have her back.”

  “You have my son to thank for that,” Llywelyn said.

  “Can one not see the father’s hand behind the actions of the son?” Abraham said.

  Llywelyn laughed. “Only when he’s doing the right thing.” He sobered. “Which my son does virtually all of the time.”

  “He bears great responsibility for one so young,” Abraham said. “Power over life and death is not to be taken lightly.”

  “As you know, being a doctor,” Llywelyn said.

  Abraham canted his head. “I grant you that.”

  “Your daughter, for whom I must, in turn, thank you, knows it too.”

  “No training could ever have prepared her for the difficulties she’s faced, but from my own experience, I know that becoming a doctor taught her how to make the decisions that needed making.”

  “As did David’s training,” Llywelyn said, “though there is a goodness in him, an innate righteousness, that defies my understanding.”

  “I suspect the kingdom is better for it,” Abraham said.

  Llywelyn smiled again. “I have a friend with whom I think you would get along very well. His name is Aaron. He is a doctor too.”

  “Rachel mentioned him.” Abraham looked away for a moment, seemingly to gather his thoughts, and then he turned back to meet Llywelyn’s gaze. “It is a great thing you have done for my people, sire.”

  Llywelyn didn’t need clarification to know what Abraham meant. Jews had been persecuted in Europe throughout history. “Again, you can thank my son for that more than me. It’s hardly a triumph on my part to live up to the Christian ideal I espouse.”

  “I don’t think so,” Abraham said. “A lifetime of prejudice is difficult to overcome. Few men have the capacity. You could have paid a heavy price for it had the gamble not paid off.”

  “There’s always that chance when one does the right thing. It shouldn’t stop a man from doing it anyway,” Llywelyn said.

  “Ah. See.” A smug smile lifted the corners of Abraham’s mouth. “I knew I saw the father in the son.”

  Llywelyn shook his head. “I am neglecting my duty. I must walk the perimeter. Would you walk with me?”

  “I would be honored, but I need to visit the clinic,” Abraham said. “I have affairs to set in order and a few things to collect.”

  “I am not going to try to convince you not to come. My children are everything to me too, and the years I was parted from them were more than trying.” Llywelyn looked up at the tower above him. “But I must ask, what will become of this place?”

  “Aber will go in trust to the Welsh nation,” Abraham said, and then at Llywelyn’s astonished look, he shrugged. “I bought it because I wanted it and wanted to care for it, but with Rachel gone, I had no heirs. Why not leave it for generations of children to appreciate?”

  Llywelyn put his heels together and gave Abraham a slight bow. “I give you the thanks of past generations too.”

  Abraham waved a hand dismissively, though he was smiling. Llywelyn realized he hadn’t seen Abraham smile very often. He put out a hand before the doctor could enter his car
, which had been parked on the edge of the circular driveway.

  “Darren is a good man, Abraham. As one father to another, I know how hard it is to see your child make a choice you wouldn’t necessarily have made.”

  Abraham stopped, one foot already inside the car. “It isn’t that I don’t approve of Darren, and please don’t think that the color of his skin has anything to do with my objections. It’s more that I don’t want her to be with him only because she doesn’t want to be alone.”

  “And he’s not Jewish,” Llywelyn said.

  Abraham made a helpless gesture with one hand. “My wife wasn’t either, and look what happened. We divorced.”

  “Marriage isn’t easy, no matter the circumstances,” Llywelyn said. “I have been very fortunate in that I married women I loved, which isn’t necessarily usual in my world. Darren is a good man. He loves Rachel. Give him a chance.”

  Abraham took in a deep breath and let it out. “I will try. Thanks.”

  “You gave me my wife back. It’s the least I could do.”

  Abraham laughed and shook his head at the same time. Then, still chuckling, he entered his car and drove away. Llywelyn watched until the red lights at the back of his vehicle had disappeared. Then he started his circuit of the castle.

  House.

  Chicken farm.

  Disgust rose again in his throat at what had become of his beloved Garth Celyn, which was the ancient name for Aber. It was from here that he’d written of defiance to King Edward a month before Cilmeri. He had to acknowledge, years after the fact, that he’d done so out of the same surety that had convinced him to admit the Jews of Europe into Wales when everyone else rejected them. Doing the right thing was its own reward, even if it meant his head on a pike at the Tower of London.

  Llywelyn walked all the way around the property, taking his time and looking beneath every bush and up every tree for watchers. By moving slowly, he was able to get a feel for sky and earth. He listened hard for any movement that wasn’t natural. It took a while to filter out the noise from the motorway below him, though at four in the morning on Christmas Day, that sound wasn’t as constant as it had been the night before.