Children of Time (The After Cilmeri Series Book Four) (25 page)

“No,” Callum said.

“Do you have a family?”

“A girlfriend,” Callum said. “Cancer got both of my parents too young.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it. “I can’t send you back. You know that, right? I can’t.”

“I know.” Callum looked away and cleared his throat. “We still haven’t figured out the
why
of any of it.”

“You and me both,” I said. We sat in silence for a bit and picked at our food. “So, you’re telling me that you don’t speak Welsh, medieval or modern?”

“I guess I’ll have to learn.” He looked at me sideways. “I do have some Gaelic.”

I let out a relieved breath. “That’s something. Maybe more than something.”

Goronwy leaned across Llywelyn to speak to me. “We should get the king to bed. He was near death a few days ago.”

“I am well,” Llywelyn said. “It’s Meg I’m concerned about. You must be exhausted.”

“I am,” I said. “But Goronwy is right about you, too.” I had continued to make sure he took his antibiotics, but proper sleep was as much medicine as the pills. “We have a big day tomorrow.”

With Sir George’s hurried (and relieved) acceptance, we returned to the suite he’d allotted us. Llywelyn sat heavily on the bed, revealing for the first time that Goronwy was right and he was very tired. As was I. The desire to be horizontal overwhelmed me and I gave in to it, curling up on top of the covers with my head on a pillow and my hands tucked under my chin. Llywelyn rested a hand on my feet in a sign of companionship. I sighed.

Goronwy surveyed us both, nodded, and then disappeared into the adjacent room. Callum excused himself to use the latrine. Then someone knocked at the door. Llywelyn didn’t move. I didn’t want to either. I glanced at him, but when he showed no signs of motion, forced myself into a sitting position.

“Come in!” I said.

The castellan opened the door but remained standing in the corridor, with a young man behind him. It was all I could do not to leap up and throw my arms around our visitor. “Huw! Goodness!”

Llywelyn nodded at Sir George. “If you would excuse us?”

“Of course, my lord.” Sir George bowed and departed.

At that point, I did rise. “Look at you! A grown man. But … what are you doing here?” I went to Huw and took his hands in mine.

“He is in The Order of the Pendragon,” Llywelyn said.

Ah yes.
“But how did you find us?”

“We’ve been following Prince Dafydd’s progression through England closely, of course, but when we heard that you’d arrived at Windsor …”

I dropped Huw’s hands, I was that startled. “How did you hear of it?”

“We guard your son, my lady,” Huw said. “Everything that concerns him is of concern to us.”

When Llywelyn had told me of this secret order, I had accepted it at face value, but for Huw to know that we had arrived here within hours of our arrival indicated a conspiracy more far-reaching than I’d supposed.

“I had stayed in Wales, because that was my post,” Huw said. “However, Bronwen came to me after the Prince left and I had to follow.”

“Bronwen! Why?” I said.

“Word came to her of a plot against Prince Dafydd, with a churchman at the center of it.”

“Is it Peckham?” Llywelyn said.

“We don’t know,” Huw said. “The informant didn’t know.”

“From what I’ve seen and heard, he has been treated well, and is even beloved. But—” I chewed on my lip. “I’ve heard ‘Arthur’ mentioned more than once and we’ve been here for only a few hours.”

“That is why he is in danger,” Llywelyn said. “Some of the other barons are jealous. They see Dafydd as too influential, too powerful.”

I wanted to scoff, to say that Llywelyn was being ridiculous, but his grave expression stopped me. “I don’t understand. He’s a Welsh prince. Why would the English care about our myths?”

“Because he is Arthur returned,” Llywelyn said, and his voice was gentle. “His people know it.”

“
All
of his people,” Huw said.

“Huw—” I began, but stopped because I had nothing to say. I couldn’t counter Huw’s earnestness—which was as genuine as that of the woman who’d dumped the warm water into my tub in the bathing room earlier, or the man who’d stoked the fire in this room half an hour ago. Their French had been halting (and they’d both been happy to switch to English when I’d replied to them in that language), but sincere nonetheless. They had referred to David as
Arthur
, with a light in their eyes that matched Huw’s. They were English but spoke of him with reverence, as if they too awaited his return.

“Why are the English happy to see him?” I said. “Didn’t we defeat them in a war three months ago?”

Llywelyn smirked. “We defeated a few lords who committed far too many good Englishmen to the endeavor. The average Englishman cares nothing at all for Wales, if its existence has ever entered his mind. But Arthur, now—the legend of Arthur is one that all people know—and to which they all can relate.”

“But the men who died—”

“Who do you think the English blame? Our Dafydd for defending his country or Roger Bigod for leading them into a storm?” Llywelyn said.

“People speak of that storm as a sign from God; that God wasn’t happy with the challenge to his chosen king,” Huw said.

I didn’t like the smile of satisfaction on Huw’s face. “So what do we do next?” I said.

“Prince Dafydd’s party left at dawn,” Huw said. “He should have arrived at Westminster Palace hours ago. We have men there to watch over him.”

“Does David know … any of this?” I said.

“No—” Llywelyn began but Huw interrupted with a raised hand, followed by slight bow in Llywelyn’s direction.

“My lord, yes, he does. Bevyn brought Dafydd to speak to my father and me in the village of Chepstow before the Prince left Wales for England. We told him about the Order of the Pendragon. I understand that this was your wish.”

I heaved a sigh. That was the first good news I’d heard. “And the threats against his life?”

“We’re not sure,” Huw said. “He has good men around him, loyal men. But we have knowledge of several churchmen who have close access to him, and are powerful in their own right.”

“Peckham,” Llywelyn said again, and this time the name came out as a growl.

“There are others too,” I said. “That other regent, Kirby, for one.”

“Churchmen abound in England,” Huw said. “There are too many to count.”

“I’m surprised that it isn’t Valence who’s of most concern. Plotting against us is what he does best,” I said.

Llywelyn slapped his thigh. “It is pleasing to me that his best has not been good enough.”

“It hasn’t been good enough
so far
,” I said.

“I will ride to him tonight, my lord,” Huw said. “I stopped here to rest my horse and because the Order knew that my face was one you’d recognize.”

“Go,” I said, knowing Llywelyn and I couldn’t—just couldn’t—go with him. “Tell him everything you know.”

Chapter Twenty

19 November 1288

David

W
e left Lambeth Palace and crossed the Thames. Before I entered under the gatehouse at Westminster, however, I dismounted. “I need to think.” I tugged my cloak around my shoulders. It had grown dark while I’d been speaking with the Archbishop, though the pre-wedding feast was still several hours off.

“There are many places to walk
inside
the palace, my lord,” Bevyn said. “No need for you to expose yourself in this way.”

“I’ve never been to London,” I said. “I want to see it.” I was being stubborn, but the day had presented me with one surprise after another. If I went back to my room, I’d be with Lili (which was all to the good), but the palace was like a fishbowl and I was the fish. Even if I walked in the gardens, I’d have the eyes of every nobleman and servant in the place on me. In Wales, I knew the exact length and width of my cage. Here, I was struggling with it being so much smaller.

The men around me exchanged the kind of glances that I didn’t have to read to know what they said. They didn’t want me to go, and ninety percent of the time—maybe ninety-nine percent of the time—I would have done as they asked because I didn’t want to inconvenience the people who looked after me. I wasn’t feeling reckless, not like when I’d followed William into England. I just wanted to walk.

I grinned, deciding to do what I wanted, for once, whether they liked it or not. “Come or don’t. It’s of no matter to me.” I set off walking north, heading away from the palace along the road that fronted the Thames River.

I imagined the mad scramble that ensued behind my back, and wasn’t surprised that it was Carew who surfed up beside me: he spoke English and French, he was a nobleman, so dressed similarly to me, and he belonged to the Order of the Pendragon. To Bevyn, he would be the perfect choice.

“Are you feeling guilty yet?” Carew said.

“Ha!” I said. “You have me down pretty well, don’t you? And yes, I was justifying my walk to myself, on the way to avoiding guilt.”

“Think nothing of it, my lord,” Carew said. “It’s good for the men to have something to think about. Protecting you will keep them busy and hone their skills. There’s nothing to do at Westminster but stand around and listen to gossip.”

“I noticed,” I said, “and I was inside the palace for all of an hour.”

Carew was silent a moment as we walked. I side-stepped a pile of refuse in the road, managed not to get run over by three ruffians chasing a fourth down the street, and avoided a prostitute on the corner. We were passing through a seedy section of London (which was what I wanted to see, I admit). Still, I carried a sword and had Carew at my side. I was safe, especially with Bevyn’s minions surrounding me on all sides, even if I couldn’t see them. Knowing him, he’d have sent them running at double-time to catch up.

What I wasn’t safe from was my thoughts. “Who has been speaking to the Archbishop, Carew?” I said. “It’s this business with my mother’s lineage which bothers me most. Whoever has falsified her origins has to know that her real parentage is obscure. The information had to come from someone very close to me, but who also has the Archbishop’s ear. I can’t think of anyone who fits that description.”

“I don’t know the answer, my lord,” he said. “It is a strange turn of events. I support your claim to the throne of England because you are Arthur reborn, whether or not you admit it. But this? It’s reaching.”

“Peckham showed me the documents,” I said. “They look real. The signature and seal of King Henry looks real.”

“Could … could it actually be the truth?”

I tsked at him. “No.”

“Did you say as much to the Archbishop?”

“Of course,” I said. “He didn’t believe me, and gave me a long explanation as to why, which sounded credible even to me. I fear another few days of this and I’ll start believing it myself.”

“You should, my lord, you of all people.”

“Don’t say that, Carew.” I pointed to a building on the left. “Let’s turn in here.”

We’d passed half a dozen taverns in the few minutes we’d been walking, but we now approached a more well-to-do area of the city and this tavern looked more upscale than the others. I might have wanted to walk, but I wasn’t stupid. Even so, Carew looked askance at me as I pushed through the door.

Fortunately, men weren’t waiting three deep at the bar. We asked for beer and got it. I paid, much to Carew’s surprise since he didn’t expect me to carry coins. I didn’t tell him that in the modern world, celebrities and presidents rarely carried cash. Even if the Arthur myth was going to swallow me whole, I didn’t have to fall into that trap. A table in the corner opened up and we sat. I chose the stool that put my back to the wall. The open stool would have had Carew’s back to the door, so he edged it around the table until he could see the room too.

I surveyed the room with him. “What do you think?” I spoke in English. I didn’t want to flaunt our Welshness more than our clothing already did.

“I miss Wales already,” Carew said.

A man at the next table swung around to look at us and pointed a finger at Carew. “Did you say Wales? Are you from Wales?” The two men sitting beyond him at the same table looked daggers at us.

I decided to brazen it out. “Yes.”

“Did you come with that prince?” The man snapped his fingers. “David, right?”

“Right,” Carew said, without answering the man’s question.

The man held up the finger he’d used to point at Carew and shouted to the bar. “They’re from Wales!”

“Oh, Christ—”

But the man cut off Carew’s lament by snapping his fingers at one of the barmaids. “Two more for those Welshmen in the corner!”

A minute later, Carew and I found ourselves surrounded by a half dozen men. The original talker pulled his stool closer so he could rest his elbows on our table. When our new drinks came, the barmaid placed them in front of us and said, “On the house.”

The man who’d called for the beer gave her a thumbs up. For a second, I feared it meant
cut off his head!
but it appeared to have the same meaning in medieval England as it did in modern America. The Welsh didn’t use that sign, so I hadn’t seen it in years.

“Tell us about him,” the man ordered. He tapped his chest. “I’m John.” He pointed at each of his friends in turn. “That’s Tom, Rob, another John, Henry, and Will.”

Carew and I lifted our hands in a tentative ‘hi’. “What do you want to know?” Carew said.

“What’s he like? Is he as brave as they say? As tall as they say?” John said.

Carew glanced at me and I decided to play along. I got to my feet. “He’s as tall as I am. I don’t know about brave—”

“When he was fourteen he stood his ground against a charging boar and killed it by ramming a spear down its throat,” Carew said.

I sat down again.

The man nodded. “I heard that story. It’s true?” At Carew’s assent, John added, “What about when he defeated old King Edward in single combat, without wielding a sword?”

“I was there,” Carew said. “I saw it.”

“You saw it?” The six Englishmen leaned forward.

I elbowed Carew in the ribs, trying to get him to stop. He winced but otherwise ignored me. “He had Edward at his mercy, but refused to kill him, since he was a kinsman. Edward then ordered his men to chain Prince David. King Edward knew who David was, you see, and rightfully feared him.”