by Adrian Speed
“Well, Sir Reginald,” the knight rolled the name over in his mouth like a disagreeable piece of gristle, “we require no permission of the Count of Bar to move across his land. We do a holy work,” he threw a hand towards the priests as demonstration.
“Of whose land is that banner?” Sir Reginald pointed to the simple, single purple circle on a red background with a few extra pieces of cloth giving it pearl shading. If Sir Reginald hadn't been looking for it, he might have never noticed it. “It is not the banner of Ely.”
“It is of no land,” Sir Steven growled. “It is the banner of the Order of the Pearl.”
“The Order of the Pearl?” a smile crept across Sir Reginald's face like a crack in winter ice.
“Speak no more, Sir Steven.” The priest who had stared so angrily at Sir Reginald sprang into the gap between the two groups. He held his cross in front of him like a magic talisman and gave him a glare that priests reserved only for arch demons. “This is no knight.”
“Bishop Franz?” Sir Steven blinked in surprise and looked down at the middle-aged man shaking with the energy of a man half his age.
“Look at that hat!” the bishop shouted, thrusting the crucifix towards it. “Look at those dark clothes! Look at the wanton woman who follows him! That is no knight! He is the Dark One!”
“I assure you, Bishop,” Sir Reginald raised his hands placating. “I am not the devil.”
“Not the devil!” Bishop Franz's throat filled with phlegm, his German accent giving terrifying weight to his words. “You are the Dark One! You are the one prophesied! You will not regain the pearl, Dark One!” In a single motion the knights closed ranks around the strong-box.
“What?” my jaw dropped. “You have the Purple Pearl?”
“Silence, temptress! Oh yes, we know your tricks!” the bishop spat on the road. “We have all taken sacred vows before God to restore the Pearl to its true owner and you will not stop us in our duty!”
“My dear fellow,” Sir Reginald could only shake his head in disbelief. “You and I have the same goals. I also only want the pearl to go to its rightful owner.”
“Do not listen to his honeyed words!” The Bishop yelled to the men behind him. “Remember the words of our founder! 'And you shall know the Dark One by the hat that rises to heaven, the clothes darker than pitch, and the sweet lies that pour from his mouth'.”
Contrary to what all television, film, and even many books had taught me, a sword does not make a scraping noise when drawn from a scabbard. There are no metal parts to scrape together. It makes a very small noise, a rattle of horn perhaps, or squeak of leather. A tiny noise.
It echoed across the fields.
“If you leave now,” Sir Steven held his sword out in front of him, point aimed at Sir Reginald's neck, “I will trust your word that you are nothing more than a friend of the Count. I do not wish to spill innocent blood. If you remain...”
“Sir Reginald…” I pulled on the reins; my horse began walking backwards.
“I'm not...I am not 'The Dark One',” Sir Reginald sat resolute. “Or if I am, you have been entirely misinformed of my true nature.”
“For a thousand years our order has sought the Purple Pearl,” Sir Steven's voice shook like a box of ferrets being constrained by its handlers. “You will not take it from us now we are so close to victory!”
“I do not wish to take it from you! I merely wish to—”
“Do not listen to him!” The Bishop screamed. “Every word will turn to maggots in your mind! Just kill him!”
“I do not wish to kill a fellow Englishman,” Sir Steven's sword point drooped.
“Well I have no qualms,” a Spanish accent growled, and again, the tiny, miniscule sound of a drawing sword echoed like falling tombstones.
“I think, Hannah,” Sir Reginald altered his grip on the reins, “it's time we headed back to Bar-le-Duc.”
“I am afraid it's too late for that,” Sir Steven rammed his helmet down on his head. “If you truly are the Dark One we cannot allow you to escape.”
Before I could blink, twelve swords were shining in the sun, all of them pointing at Sir Reginald. The bottom dropped out of my heart. I felt as though I were floating disconnected from the world.
“Hannah, my dear,” Sir Reginald's voice cut through me like lightning. “Did I hear you were studying the Nipponese art of sword fighting?”
“Kendo? Yes?”
“Then now might be time to avail yourself of it!” Sir Reginald drew his cane, grabbed its handle and twisted. It clicked like the opening of a pen. Cold steel flashed under the ebony wood. In one motion Sir Reginald ripped the blade out of the cane and threw it to me. I snatched it out of the air and held it in front of me in the first Kendo form. I didn't have time to worry that this was the first time I’d ever held a metal sword.
Sir Reginald slid off his horse and held the empty cane-scabbard out in front of him like a sword, his left hand sliding behind his back and his chest puffing out, the starting position for a fencer.
“You really think you can defend yourself with a piece of wood, Dark One?” Sir Steven sneered. “One wooden stick against twelve knights in armour?”
“I—”
“Do not give him a chance to pollute your mind with speech!” The bishop screamed. “Charge him!”
The twelve knights sprang forward as fast as their armour allowed. Sir Reginald awaited them in a state of grace. With one foot he traced a space around him, feeling the terrain. He had only seconds before they were upon him.
A long sword swung for him with the weight of mountains. Sir Reginald ducked beneath it, whisking his hat off in the process, and shoved his cane between the legs of his attacker. The knight tripped and his momentum threw him straight over, into the mud with a splatter.
A sword-point cut through the air heading straight for Sir Reginald's ribs. He avoided it by a hair's breadth and dived towards his attacker, holding his hat out in front of him. The darkness of the hat covered the man's eye slits just long enough for confusion to arise. Sir Reginald's foot smashed into the knight's knee and his cane came down on the knight's head. Not a killing blow, but enough to knock the man to the ground.
“That's two to me.” Sir Reginald rammed his hat down on his head and smiled. Arrogantly, as it turned out. A spear butt smashed into his ribs and knocked him flying.
“No!” I unfroze and leapt from my horse. The knight with the spear span it overhead, to bring the point down into Sir Reginald's prone body. I kicked a foot out at the spear, crushing it to the ground inches from Sir Reginald and bringing the knight to his knees. Before I could even think about it, two years’ worth of Kendo training kicked into gear. I raised the sword above my head and brought it down in a single swing.
It smashed into the knight's shoulder, bit through chainmail and down into skin. Blood fountained and the man staggered. I didn't wait for him to regain his balance. Another blow smashed down on the same point, cutting even deeper and the knight toppled over.
“Thank you my dear,” Sir Reginald said in English from behind me with a voice that crackled, the voice of someone who couldn't breathe deeply for fear of cracking broken ribs further. “Ruffian rather knocked me for six.”
“He must be the Dark One!” Bishop Franz jumped up and down, waving his arms. “He teaches women to fight and then talks in black speech! Just as foretold! If there is any doubt in your heart it must be destroyed! Kill him! Slaughter him!”
“Get behind me, Sir Reginald,” I ordered as Sir Reginald and I began to back away. He didn't argue, but held the cane out in front of him nonetheless. The two men knocked to the floor were getting back to their feet. I could see the fury behind their eye slits, the flames fed by embarrassment.
A horn cry split the air. I couldn't help it, I took my eyes off the enemy for just long enough to see where it had come from. A flickering hint of blue and yellow, the colours of the Count of Bar.
“Do it now!” Bishop Franz screeched. “Be
fore the allies of darkness come to save them!”
“But the safety of the pearl—”
“The pearl can be recovered if the Dark One is destroyed!”
I didn't wait for the attack. The sword span in my hands and drove itself into the nearest knight's knee. The brilliant steel of Sir Reginald's sword was forged at least eight hundred years into the future. It sliced through the thin Milanese steel like tissue. It moved even more easily through flesh.
“Oh God,” I struggled to contain my reaction as the knight fell before my eyes, fresh puddles forming in the mud. “Oh god.” I struggled to stop myself vomiting up my entire digestive system. The man's scream echoed across the fields and down into the deepest part of my memories. I’d never forget it.
“Your first kill, little girl?” Sir Steven twirled his long sword in his hands. “For all your skill with that sword, this is the first time you've ever attacked in anger, isn't it?”
“I—I—”
“You will not get a second chance!”
Three of them attacked at once. I dived from one sword strike almost straight into another. Sir Reginald's cane appeared from behind me, the black wood taking the blow, the sword biting almost all the way through.
I didn't have time to think. I struck with all the force I had, screaming as I did it. My sword bounced off a breast plate, earning the armourer his weight in gold. The force of the blow sent the knight staggering. The second blow struck upwards, under the arm, straight through the chain mail linkages and deep into flesh.
“I will avenge you Robert!” another knight screamed, but it ended as inarticulate choking. My sword found its way through his eye slits, right through to the other side of the helmet.
“Now you're stuck!” a third knight whooped with joy and charged while I struggled with my sword, jammed in the helmet refusing to move. Panic thought faster than my brain. I swung the whole dead knight on the end of my sword. The blow aimed at my chest bounced harmlessly off my enemy’s armour.
I kicked the knight on the end of my sword in the chest and sent his limp body flying, finally freeing my weapon. The blade span in my hands and my final attacker became harmless, or at the very least, armless.
Five men in armour lay on the ground, dead or dying. My eye twitched at the sight of blood on my blade. Another horn blast sounded, closer this time, the hoof beats of cavalry like the rolls of distant thunder.
“Oh Christ!” I gulped and my head swam. My stomach churned and tried to make a break for freedom. I wanted to vomit, to faint, to drop my sword and run as far and fast as I possibly could. But at the same time my muscles sang with adrenaline. There was no pain, no exhaustion; just pure unadulterated energy. Nothing felt impossible.
“Sir Reginald,” I turned my head to look at him, not noticing how his eyes became pinpricks of fear as I did so. “Are you OK?”
“Hannah—!”
Something pinched just above my breast. My chest felt hot and running with sweat. I looked down. Dark running liquid pooled on a sword blade and ran lazily down the length.
“It had to be your first time,” Sir Steven’s voice boomed from the other end of the blade. “Never, ever, take your eyes off your opponent.”
“Or underestimate them,” I growled and, still flushed with adrenaline, swung. One single blow was enough. Sir Steven's helmet slowly slid off his shoulders.
“Hannah!” Sir Reginald rushed to my side. “Don't touch the—”
I pulled the sword out of my chest with one motion. Adrenaline pounded in my ears. Pain tingled on the edge of consciousness like the sounds of screams on the other side of town.
“Why did you do that!?” Sir Reginald caught me as I fell, weakness overtaking me. “Never, ever remove a blade like that! Now there's nothing to hold the blood in!”
Thunder broke around us as Henri's lancers struck. Twenty knights on horseback rushed around us. The six remaining armoured men died almost instantly. The priests and servants were fleeing for the hills, the banner fell to the ground, the strong-box lay broken open, empty.
“I...wasn't thinking straight,” I managed from Sir Reginald's arms. I tried lifting my hand to my chest. It felt like lead, heavy and nearly impossible to move. A perfect incision ran straight through my chest just by my left collar bone.
“Oh you daft, silly girl,” Sir Reginald muttered.
There was a faint popping noise and a whistle of steam.
“Sir Reginald!” an English voice called in twentieth-century English over the roar of hooves. “Where the devil are you?”
“Over here!”
“Sorry old chap! You're going to have a powerful headache in a minute!”
I struggled to stay conscious as Sir Reginald lifted me up. Around me was nothing but the chaos of hooves and horses. The familiar shape of a stove-pipe hat came into view, blurring with the darkening sky, covered in mud.
“Two of you?” I muttered as my vision swam.
Then everything went dark.
Chapter X
The town of Bar-Le-Duc woke to face the morning. Pottage boiled over freshly lit fires. Smoke mingled above the shingles. The castle keep rose above the river Ornien rolling lazily towards the sea. Not the story-book chateau Bar became known for in later centuries. Four straight walls of stone climbed to the sky. The only use for windows was to have another place to shoot arrows at attackers. The only use for doorways was to funnel attackers into sword points. At each corner a tower rose even higher, bristling with archers.
The courtyard of the castle enclosed a blacksmith’s, a kitchen with warming ovens, a wooden stable where thirty horses snoozed, and the brightly painted iron work of Sir Reginald Derby's time-machine. Servants had been working since daybreak, while their masters woke more sluggishly.
It was simultaneously an hour later and three hours earlier. And I only have Sir Reginald's word to go on about what happened next.
Sparks crackled next to the time-machine, sending the servants running. A greasy metallic taste filled the air. The sparks burst into lightning strikes, arced into the ground and interlinked with a webbing of flame.
Another time-machine appeared with a faint pop. Gears ground together and steam whistled as the time-machine came to rest next to its older self. Excess steam billowed out of the boiler and mingled with the smoke rising from the chimney. Where once there was silence, there was now the dull roar of the time-machine.
“Henri!” Sir Reginald yelled from the time-machine. “Henri you are needed most urgently!” He leapt from the controls and ran out into the courtyard. Glancing around for someone, anyone, he found the castle steward.
“Philippe!” He reached the man in two strides. “Find your master immediately. It is most urgent I speak to Henri!”
“I...I can't understand—” the steward mumbled. Sir Reginald checked himself. In his haste he had been gabbling in English.
“Find Henri,” Sir Reginald said in French. “Find him as fast as you can, and wake the whole household.”
“Er, yes sir,” the steward said. There was an awkward pause. “You have to let go of me, sir.”
“Yes, yes, I do, yes,” Sir Reginald sprang away from the steward and watched him dash away to a staircase.
Sir Reginald struggled to contain himself. He had to keep moving. If he stopped moving for any reason something terrible would happen. Which was stupid. By definition he had all the time in the world. He had a time-machine. And yet the greatest and darkest fears began to rise in Sir Reginald's mind.
“Reginald?” As the son of a count, Henri was not required to give Sir Reginald his title, and as Sir Reginald's very close and dear friend, he had to even less. Henri was walking down the stairs, wearing his night-clothes and a sleepy expression when the steward had bustled up. “Reginald, ma foi, what could possibly be the matter? I thought you left to go falconing with your associate an hour ago.”
“A dozen armoured knights, the Order of the Pearl, are making their way across your lands,” Sir Regi
nald said in such haste another man would have slurred words together. “They are on the south road, heading towards Lorraine and thence, I think, to Germany.”
“Oh, that's a bother,” Henri rubbed his eyes clean of sleepy dust and grabbed at the robe his valet brought him. “I suppose I should ride out and ask them the whys and wherefores. Perhaps a donation to the monks at—”
“They attacked me! And Hannah! She's badly hurt!” Sir Reginald's voice cracked. The raw emotion woke and sobered Henri more than the words themselves.
“I have a surgeon here,” Henri lifted a finger to the sky. “The very best, from Italy. We'll save her Reginald – where is she?”
“Not now!” Sir Reginald pulled at his hair, knocking his hat into the mud in the process. “Three hours from now.”
“Three hours from now?”
“YES!” Sir Reginald tore at his hair as his hands moved on their own. He pulled out his pocket-watch. “In precisely two hours and fifty-six minutes, seventeen seconds from now, Hannah will be stabbed in the chest! You and your knights need to be there!”
“What, you mean you weren't lying?” Henri was level with Sir Reginald now. “You really can travel in time?”
“Of course I can travel in time!” Sir Reginald yelled. At this point Henri noticed the two time-machines in the yard, one with its boiler blazing and flywheel turning, the other as cold as ice.
“All this time I thought you were just playing some sort of joke. I mean, you always arrived at night and the–” Henri stopped mid sentence. “This fight happens three hours from now?”
“Yes! Three miles south, where the sheep graze on the hills,” Sir Reginald insisted.
“Then my knights will be there, don't you worry.” Henri bent down to pick up Sir Reginald's hat and handed it over. Sir Reginald took it, fingers trembling despite himself. “Sound the alarm!” Henri called. His cry echoed around the stones unhindered. “I said, sound the alarm!” Henri thundered.
A bell started to ring, loud enough to shake the foundations of the castle, and didn't stop. The entire castle awoke at once. Knights dozing in their beds shot upright at the sound of it. Servants went running for armour and swords, or for saddles and lances. A storm of shouts and running feet began in the walls of the castle, radiating towards Henri and Sir Reginald.
