Children of Time (The After Cilmeri Series Book Four) (33 page)

“You’ve been cooling your heels as a glorified bodyguard since you came here,” David said. “Today has been a long time coming.”

“You’re saying I’m to go to Scotland for you?” Callum clenched his suddenly shaking fists and took a step towards David.

“You speak Gaelic. How could I not send you?” David said. “I once stood in your shoes, you know.”

Callum took in a deep breath and let it out, acknowledging that few men could understand Callum better than David. He had arrived in medieval Wales at the age of fourteen and grown to be the King of England. “That isn’t something I could ever forget, even if others might.”

“You could have told me how you felt,” David said.

“You’ve had enough on your plate without worrying about me. I didn’t want to make your life harder. But you’re right. If I have to spend one more day with nothing of value to do, I might lose my mind.”

“Then this is the right time for you to leave,” David said.

In the early days of his sojourn in the medieval world, Callum had hoped that the near constant activity involved in learning this new way of life would be enough to sustain him until he could return to the modern world. But as the weeks and months had dragged on, it became increasingly clear that the opportunity for return was not going to be forthcoming—not from Meg, not from her daughter, Anna, and particularly not from her son, David, who had a kingdom to run.

Callum had come to accept that he was stranded in the Middle Ages for the time being. He hadn’t asked Meg to take him back to the modern world, and after living for six months among these people, it seemed less likely with each passing day that he could. He understood that he would only be able to leave if an opportunity dropped into his lap. He couldn’t plan on it. It would be a matter of being in the right place at the right time for once, as he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time on the balcony at Chepstow.

By treating his life here as just another mission, and by living the life of a soldier again, Callum had also hoped to have banished the PTSD for good. But the enforced inactivity of late winter had unveiled new symptoms, worse ones. Callum dreamed every night of his old life in MI-5, or on bad nights, of the flash of exploding IEDs and death. He would wake with grit in his teeth, more tired than when he went to sleep. He’d taken to pushing himself physically so he could go to bed exhausted. If that didn’t work, or Callum awoke in the night and couldn’t go back to sleep, he would return to the hall and consume more beer than was good for him. A drinking companion was never hard to find in medieval England.

David hadn’t said anything to Callum about his behavior. The king might be all of twenty years old, but he was still effectively Callum’s boss. As odd as that was, David never took advantage of it, never threw his weight around, and never implied that he knew more than Callum about what was best for him. Even if he did.

Callum had spent much of the spring—when he wasn’t learning impossible languages or practicing sword-fighting as he’d done today—riding with the garrison on patrol as if he belonged with the other men. Everyone knew Callum didn’t. The men humored him, even accepted his company as his horsemanship improved, but he could never be one of them. Callum had finally concluded that he needed something real to do.

And it seemed that David, despite his total silence on the subject, had understood that too.

David tossed his weapon into a pile with Callum’s sword and shield. Then he pulled off his gloves and sweat-soaked shirt, effectively giving Callum permission to do the same. The day had grown warm. David sat on a bench in the shade of a north-facing wall and leaned back, stretching his long legs in front of him. “From that first day at St. Paul’s, I had every intention of using you. It was a matter of finding where your interests and mine aligned.”

 Until now, David hadn’t asked anything of Callum, just provided: food and shelter, tutors, weapons training—anything that Callum thought he needed, and some things that he hadn’t known he needed to take his place as a knight in medieval England. David hadn’t said one word about Callum serving him.

But now … now Callum had a task he could sink his teeth into.

Since Christmas, Callum had been catching up on all the British history that had bored him stiff in school. A matter of kings and crowns and untimely deaths, only some of which had turned out to be the same here as back in the old world.

David’s current headache had to do with who would sit on Scotland’s throne, empty since the death of the last king, Alexander III, in 1286. Scotland had been ruled during the three years since by a council of Guardians: two Scottish bishops, two Scottish lords, and two English noblemen. Callum’s headache was keeping them all straight, but it helped that one of the English lords happened to be Gilbert de Clare, a strong ally of David. The other English lord had died and hadn’t been replaced.

These Guardians had held the throne in trust on behalf of Alexander’s last legitimate heir: his six-year-old granddaughter, Margaret. Fearful to wait until she grew up, her father, Erik of Norway, had sent the girl to Scotland to stand before her people as their queen. Margaret had died during the journey from Norway, however, before she could be crowned.

The girl’s death had happened in the old world too, and King Edward had stepped in to mediate the succession. As the new King of England, it was David’s task now, and all of Britain was counting on him to stop Scotland from going off the rails.

David tapped a finger to his lips. “I promised the Scots I would ride north to meet Margaret and speak before their Parliament, but I was hoping to put it off until the summer. Now that she’s dead, I’m stuck with that promise and have a pressing need for a delegation. The Scots are still expecting me to come, but I can’t go. You’ll have to convey my regrets to them.”

Callum went up on the balls of his feet and came down. “It’s important to be here for the birth of your first child.”

David scoffed. “You and I are the only men who think so. You should have heard the uproar among my advisors when I told them I wasn’t going.”

“The Scots might appreciate your lack of interference,” Callum said.

“That’s exactly what I explained to my council.” David laughed. “The good news is that I have managed to turn my selfish desire into kingly magnanimity. By not journeying to Scotland now, I show the Scots that I mean what I say: I do not want their throne.” He eyed Callum, still smirking. “You will have to do.”

“What about Gilbert de Clare?” Callum said. “He could speak for you instead of me.”

“He is overseeing his estates in Ireland,” David said. “I sent him a message that he’s needed, but communication being what it is, he may not have received it yet. I can’t predict when he will arrive in Scotland.”

“I will do my best for you, my lord.” Callum bowed. He didn’t bow before David very often, but this moment seemed to call for some formality.

“I trust you more than any of the other men I’m sending in the delegation,” David said. “I’m counting on you to be my eyes and ears in Scotland. Bishop Kirby thinks he’s the primary ambassador and will take all the responsibility for the mediation if he can—as well as all the credit for its success—but I don’t trust him.”

Callum met that statement with the silence it deserved, taking a moment to pour David a cup of water from a pitcher and hand it to him. Callum poured a cup for himself too, and they both drank. David had told Callum about the behind-the-scenes machinations that had taken place leading up to David’s crowning as King of England. Kirby had forged documents attesting that Meg was the daughter of King Henry and Caitir, an illegitimate daughter of King Alexander II of Scotland.

Although David had declared time and again that the documents were fake, nobody seemed to believe him, especially since the Church had gone ahead and crowned him King of England anyway. Other claimants to the throne of Scotland now feared that those same documents gave David a right to the Scottish throne too, and that David would back up his supposed claim with military might.

“I have ordered Kirby to leave my rights out of this, no matter how acrimonious the negotiations become among the Scots.” David poured the last of the water in his cup over his head and then brushed the wet hair back from his face with both hands. “Kirby has assented. I’m not getting involved in a war in Scotland. As you and I know, it would be a quagmire. Do try to head one off if you can.”

“You’re sure about asking Kirby to lead your delegation?” Callum said.

“The task should have gone to Archbishop Peckham, but he has been ill since the winter and is still recovering. Kirby begged for the job, and while his desire for it concerns me since it appears to me to be a thankless task, I don’t want you to get sucked into the dispute. You are to stay free of bias towards any faction. Your job is to be a calming influence among the Scottish nobility, to ferret out what’s happening behind closed doors and in the underbelly of the royal court,
and—
I want to know who killed Princess Margaret.”

“She died of what sounds like the flu or pneumonia,” Callum said.

David shrugged. “So they say. I’m reluctant to believe in so coincidental a death, even if it would take an awfully cold heart to murder a small child.”

“It has happened before,” Callum said. “Maybe recently.”

“That’s exactly my concern,” David said. “It’s bad enough that I never discovered if my predecessor, little Prince Edward, died of smallpox or was murdered. I don’t want to place the crown of Scotland on the head of the man who ordered Margaret’s death.”

“I can’t promise—”

“I’m asking too much, I know. Do what you can.”

“Yes, my lord.”

David smirked. “My title never sounds right coming from you, though it’s not as bad as when my sister says it.”

Callum smiled. “Yes, my lord.”

Then David held up a hand, having one more thing to say. “To give you the stature you require in order to move freely throughout the north, I am awarding you the earldom of Shrewsbury.”

All the air left Callum’s chest. It was an outrageous gift and one he didn’t deserve. David’s advisors must have nearly had apoplexy when he suggested it. “My lord—you can’t!”

“The Earldom of Shrewsbury was allowed to expire almost two hundred years ago,” David said. “I can bestow it upon whomever I wish.”

“I know for a fact that Humphrey de Bohun covets it for his son, William,” Callum said.

“I’ve given Worcester to William. He didn’t complain so I don’t see why you should. It’s a done deal. I signed the document this morning.”

Callum was still staring at David, his mouth agape.

Then Lili appeared through the archway that led from the courtyard to the kitchen garden. She glanced at Callum and grinned. “I gather you told him?”

David stood, clapped a hand on Callum’s shoulder, and strode past him towards his wife. As an excuse for David not to ride to Scotland, she was a good one. Less than a month remained in her pregnancy, and he was determined to be with her for the birth.

David had moved the court from Westminster Palace to Kings Langley so she could have sunshine and quiet as she waited. He had little of either himself no matter where he resided, although this was better than the stink and press of London. Even through Callum’s very modern eyes, the London of the Middle Ages was crowded and polluted. Kings Langley couldn’t compare to the mountains of Wales, but it was more like them than the city.

David took Lili’s hand. “Are you well? Is there something you wanted?”

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Lili laughed at David’s attentiveness. “I won’t break, you know. I just came to tell you that the men on the wall can see Ieuan’s banner in the distance.”

“Finally!” David gestured that Callum should come with him.

Callum had met the rest of David’s family at Christmas, after David’s tour of England as the country’s new king, but he hadn’t seen any of them since then. In the Middle Ages, travel was dangerous and difficult. While David’s rule had brought peace to England and its roads were for the most part safe, to travel a hundred miles still took three days on horseback. It was too much of a challenge for a woman with a new baby, of which David’s family suddenly had quite a few.

A few weeks ago, David’s sister, Anna, and her husband, Math, had welcomed a second son. They’d named him Bran after the original ruler of Dinas Bran, Math’s seat in northeast Wales. Before that, in March, Meg had given birth to her twins, Elisa and Padrig. Neither woman felt comfortable leaving her children to travel to England.

Thus, the only family members who could make the journey from Wales for the birth of Lili’s baby were Bronwen, a fellow time traveler; her husband, Ieuan (who was also Lili’s brother); and their six month old daughter, Catrin.

Callum knew that childbirth was one of the events that seemed to precipitate time travel. He’d spent approximately one minute scheming as to how he might attend the births, on the off chance that one of the women
did
time travel home, but then discarded the idea just as quickly. What could he have done? Hovered over Anna or Meg as they labored, waiting for that moment when they might take him back to the modern world? It would have been an obscene request and he’d stayed in England rather than be tempted.

Callum accepted the clean shirt Lili had brought for him, slipping it on and buckling his real sword around his waist, before following David towards the gatehouse of the castle. They reached it just as the visitors came to a halt in the outer bailey.

Bronwen shot Callum a grin from the saddle as she handed Catrin down to Ieuan, who had dismounted first. “You’re here!”

Callum moved to help her to the ground. “Why does that surprise you?”

“I don’t know,” Bronwen said. “You had the look a few months ago of someone whose feet were itching to hit the road.”

“And so they are,” Callum said.

Aaron, the physician for the Welsh royal court, held his hand to his lower back. “The journey from Caerphilly to London was quite enough for me.”

“You are a steadfast companion, nonetheless, Aaron,” Bronwen said, and then looked past him to smile at his son, “as is Samuel.”