Children of Time (The After Cilmeri Series Book Four) (23 page)

“Archbishop.” I took Peckham’s hand and bent my head over it, though it irked me to do so. Mom had commented once that it was a good thing everyone usually bowed to me, since I had such trouble bending a knee to anyone, good American that I was. I didn’t kiss his ring.

“Son,” Peckham said. “Please join me for some wine.”

I moved towards a chair next to the fire, but when Peckham didn’t follow, I turned. He was looking at the cluster of men in the entrance to his solar. “I would like some time alone with our young prince, my friends. Please excuse us,” he said.

The Archbishop used the word
please
, but it was more than a request. The others filed out, but Carew didn’t move until I nodded at him. He tipped his head to me and followed the other men out the door. He would remain on the other side of the door until I finished my meeting, filling in for Bevyn and Evan, who hadn’t been invited past the bailey.

“Now.” Peckham turned to me—and then to my surprise, grasped both my forearms and held me. He couldn’t have been more than five and a half feet tall, about Mom’s height, so he had to look up at me as he spoke. “You have grown much in these three years, in both stature and wisdom.”

Wow.
 
Really?

I didn’t say it, though. Instead, I smiled, and accepted the glass of wine the Archbishop poured me. I waited to take a sip until he drank from his own goblet, however, not trusting this man, for all that he had greeted me as a friend. As I sat in an armchair beside the fire and listened to the Archbishop make small talk, a deep suspicion grew in my belly. I had met the Archbishop Peckham only once, but it was memorable—in 1285 at the signing of the Treaty between Wales and England—and that man would never have welcomed me into his chamber this way. He was bowing and scraping, as if he really believed all that claptrap about my mother.

He
couldn’t
believe it. At the time I’d found it staggering that Bohun had given the idea any credence at all. Why was Peckham behaving as if it were God’s own truth?

Finally, I broke in. “What’s really going on, here?”

Peckham wasn’t used to being interrupted. “Excuse me?”

“I appreciate your hospitality. Believe me, it’s a delightful change of heart compared to the last time we met, but I’m wondering why you are being so solicitous to me?”

Peckham tapped a finger on his lips. “I see before me the future King of England.”

So that
was
it. “You see me on the throne of England? On what grounds? I neither want the crown nor have a right to it.”

“I beg to differ, my lord. These papers say you do have a claim.” Peckham rested his hand on the parchment on his desk. “In fact, yours is more credible than that of any other man in England.”

“May I see the papers?” I held out my hand.

Peckham flattened one of the rolls and handed it to me as if it were the crown jewels. I gazed at what was written there. The words were in Latin, which I could read, and said exactly what Bohun had insisted they said. The document read as a testimonial, as if my mother might some day need proof that she was the king’s daughter.

I shrugged, unable to explain why the document appeared authentic. It wasn’t like a man could digitally alter documents in the Middle Ages. I would have seen the hand of Bevyn’s Order of the Pendragon behind it, but given the fewness of them and their limited reach, it would have been stretching credulity that they could have accomplished something so monumental as fooling the Archbishop of Canterbury. What the existence of these documents said to me was that whoever wanted me on the throne had friends in very high places.

 “Even if this were the king’s signature and seal—”

“I assure you, they are genuine.”

“—my mother remains illegitimate. That means nothing to the Welsh, but to you? Haven’t you campaigned for years against the Welsh practice of acknowledging illegitimate children? Under the circumstances, why isn’t the Church opposed to my succession?”

Peckham put his fist to his mouth and coughed. “It is something we are willing to overlook in this instance. And of course, you, yourself, are not illegitimate. Before your birth, your parents married in secret, did they not?”

I stared at him.
Very high places.

“Surely dozens of other men might have an equal right to the throne, or at least a comparable one,” I said. “We could trace the right of kingship back to King Harold and find an English counterpart to my cousin Hywel, if it was necessary to find a worthy successor to Edward. Thus, why am I the horse you’re betting on?”

For the first time, Peckham gave me a ghost of a smile. “Who says you’re my only bet?”

I let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
Who indeed
. “Touché,” I said. “I’m Welsh, the son of the King of Wales. You acknowledged my father only three years ago and reluctantly at that. Again, I ask you,
why me
?”

The Archbishop leaned forward to peer into my face. He gave me a long look, and then sat back in his chair. “For a moment, I was tempted to hurl those words back at you, because I find it difficult to believe that you don’t know the reason why—don’t know what you’ve done. Then again—” he gazed at me from under bushy eyebrows, “—Clare warned me about you.”

“Clare—”

“So I’ll tell you why you have my support,” Peckham said, “and my heart.”

I swallowed hard. Like Bohun—and Clare, and Carew, and Edmund Mortimer—he was serious.

“When your father claimed you as his heir six years ago, soon after you turned fourteen and by Welsh law became a man, I thought nothing of it,” Peckham said. “Well, not
nothing
, but it seemed of little concern. King Edward was in the ascendancy, your father barely escaped Cilmeri with his life, and it appeared to be only a matter of time before all Wales fell to us.”

“But we didn’t,” I said.

Peckham stabbed a finger in my direction. “
You
didn’t. Since then, everywhere you have gone, upon whatever you have turned your gaze, you have triumphed. When the name
Arthur
began to be ascribed to you, whether spoken in the countryside or in taverns and street corners from Bristol to York, do you know what my first instinct was?”

“To deny it, of course,” I said.

“You think that, do you?” Peckham said. “Six years ago, England was the strongest, most united, and most powerful kingdom in Europe. Then you save your father, and two months later defeat Edward’s forces in an epic battle, to the point that his creditors start clamoring for their money out of fear that he has nothing left with which to pay them. Then Edward dies, along with many powerful men, including his brother.

“In three short years, we have fallen into disunity and despair, so far from what we were that most of us can still barely comprehend what we are seeing, even though it is happening before our eyes. At the same time, Wales—a tiny, insignificant country full of sheep herders and pig keepers—has conquered all, simply because you raised your sword and said
God wills it
? The truth is laid bare before us. Rarely in my life have I seen such obvious signs of the hand of God in man’s pursuits. How can you ask
me
why I support your claim? Are you that blind to your own power?”

“I am that clear-eyed,” I said. “Every Norman in London seeks either to use me for his own purposes, or to murder me. I wanted to know what was in your heart.”

So adamant was Peckham as he’d been speaking, that he’d risen to his feet, but now he lowered himself back into his chair. “You can trust no one. I understand that. But it would be a mistake to think that you are alone and without friends.”

“It may be that you are telling the truth. You may think that England would be best served by my rule,” I said, “but when has what is best for England meant more to those who seek the throne than their own power?”

“It means more to you.”

“What’s best for Wales means more to me,” I said.

“You care nothing for the people of England?” he said. “You care nothing for the Will of God?”

I tapped my lips with one finger, studying Peckham. He sort of had me there, since the English were a conquered people too. I wouldn’t wish poor rule or a bad king on them either, in theory anyway. Weak English kings tended to be a good thing for Wales and King Edward certainly hadn’t been that.

“Edward tried to thwart God’s purpose.” Peckham’s face was lit from within. “And He smote him down.”

“Edward did keep the barons in line.”

Peckham allowed himself a laugh. “That he did. And me too.” He rubbed his chin as he eyed me. “I would be doing you a disservice if I didn’t tell you before you assumed the throne that all has not been well in England since King Edward died.”

How had we gotten from my outright denial of interest in the throne to Peckham assuming that I would
take it? I thought back over our conversation. Nowhere had I said—or even implied—such a thing. This was so much worse than any conversation I’d had on the subject with my father. Still, I had to answer. “So I have heard. You’re talking about money, aren’t you? You’re in debt. How bad is it?”

“Not in debt, per se, but when Edward died, the regents defaulted on his personal loans,” Peckham said.

“I know already that these loans came from the same Italian creditors to whom you owe money,” I said.

The Archbishop didn’t respond to my barb. “It means that the crown can institute no more wars or building programs until we either find a new source of revenue or increase taxes.”

“That would be because your pogroms against the Jews have effectively cut them off as a source of ready cash,” I said.

“They are not
my
pogroms,” Peckham said. “The Church does not support these laws.” The smile that curled on his lips had my heart clenching. “If you were king, you could do something about these heinous crimes against the Jews.”

“Archbishop—”

“Think about it.”

Chapter Nineteen

19 November …

Meg

A
s I fell, I blacked out for a second, but then I hit the water, went under, and came up, sputtering and gasping for air—and more glad than I could possibly say when three other heads popped up with me. I was sorry that it hadn’t worked and we were still stuck in the twenty-first century, but I was happy to be alive. As the current swept me downstream, one of the babies kicked me hard as if to say—
Mom, what on earth are you doing
?

And then it hit me:
three heads?

I didn’t have time to think about our stowaway for more than a second, because I spun around and nearly banged into a floating log. Then a hand grabbed my arm. I blinked away water to see Llywelyn’s face in front of me. “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” I said. “We never bought those life preservers.”

He swung a piece of debris in my direction, a thick branch from a tree, and then grinned at me. “This is what we call a
life preserver
in my time.”

I clutched at it, grinning back at him, though it was ridiculous to be happy when we were about to get arrested for attempted time travel and jumping into the Wye River. I’d loved Llywelyn for twenty years. Even cold, wet, and on the run, every day I was with him was a good day.

“We need to get out of the water before we drown.” Goronwy shouted at us from ten yards a way.

Llywelyn scoffed. “How is it that we always end up in the water, Meg?”

“I have no idea,” I said, and then added. “I’m sorry it didn’t work.”

Llywelyn didn’t answer, just urged me towards a sandbar jutting from the eastern shore of the river. Gasping, I was reminded of our fall from the window at Brecon Castle twenty years ago when we escaped one of Roger Mortimer’s assassins (the Roger who was father to the current Roger Mortimer and his brother, Edmund). I’d told Llywelyn I was pregnant with David that morning.

Now, I crawled on my hands and knees out of the water and turned onto my back with one arm thrown across my eyes. The three men followed suit and we lay in a row on the beach. The rain had abated, which was a blessing, and it was warmer on land than in the river. I was happy to be alive.

“We should go,” I said, “before anyone comes.”

“Who’s going to come?” Llywelyn said. “We’ve left everyone behind.”

“What?” I opened my eyes and sat up to look down at Llywelyn. “What did you say?”

At my exclamation, the man who’d tried to stop us, jerked upright too. “Oh, my God.”

He pointed at the towers that poked above the trees on the other side of the river. I didn’t know to what estate they belonged, but they weren’t part of Chepstow Castle. The river in front of me wasn’t the Wye, either, and the mountains in the distance weren’t in Wales.

I reached out to Llywelyn, who lay on my left, still with his eyes closed, but with a smile hovering around his lips. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I said.

He sat up and his smile broadened.
Someone
was happy to be home. “I was a little busy getting you out of the water.”

“My God, you did it.” The man said. His legs sprawled in front of him and somewhere along the way he’d lost his trench coat. His suit and tie, modern and incongruous, contrasted sharply with our medieval clothing.

“What did he say?” Llywelyn said. The stranger had been speaking English.

The man turned his head to stare at Llywelyn and me as if he had to force himself to do it. Upon closer inspection, I placed him in his middle thirties, with just a few lines around his eyes. “We’re really—we’re really in the Middle Ages?” he said.

“It’s what was supposed to happen when we jumped from the balcony,” I said, “though honestly, I almost can’t believe it myself and it’s the third time I’ve done this.”

“My God.”

It didn’t look like I was getting much more out of him for a while, so I turned back to Llywelyn and Goronwy. “Where are we? Do you recognize those towers, or the river?”

Both men shook their heads. Goronwy pulled off a boot, poured water from it, and then put it on again, to repeat the process with his other boot.