Winds of Time (2 page)

* * * * *

“
This is just terrific.” I
kicked a rock with my boot. “Stuck in the Middle Ages
again
! No proper clothing.
No money. No food. In the middle of nowhere!”

I shouted my frustration to the sky as I
paced beside Hadrian’s Wall. I needed a plan and I needed it fast.
At least it wasn’t the middle of winter, so surviving alone in the
open wasn’t a problem. At least I hadn’t landed in a packed church
and been branded a witch. These were definite pluses.

In addition, I was no longer
the ignorant girl I’d been when Llywelyn rescued me. In the
subsequent years since my return to the modern world, I had raised
my children with the help of my mother. I’d gotten myself back into
college and eventually to graduate school. I had a Ph.D. in
history, specializing (not surprisingly) in thirteenth century
Wales. The last chapters of my dissertation, in fact, described
what Wales
might have done
to avoid being conquered so completely by England.
My dissertation committee hadn’t liked that part of course—too
speculative—but truth be told, that was where most of my energies
had gone, and my interest had lain. If Llywelyn survived Cilmeri,
I
needed
to get
back to him. My whole being vibrated with the urgency of
it.

Marty, in an apparent fit of remorse, had
thrown my duffel bag out of the plane right before he took off. I
had hauled it up the hill to my present location beside the Wall. I
knelt in the grass to unzip both the duffel and the backpack to
take inventory, and heaved a sigh at what I saw. I wasn’t entirely
without resources.

I had three or four changes of clothes,
appropriate for summer wear, my makeup, manicure kit, and shampoo;
a laptop computer with approximately four hours of battery life,
assorted pens and paper, and my wallet; a small first aid kit in a
metal tin, one package of M&M’s, two maxi-pads, a comb, various
assorted hair accessories, three paper clips, two safety pins, my
cell phone, and a water bottle.

Furthermore, on my right hand I wore a ruby
ring Llywelyn had given me, and in a secret pocket of my suitcase
lay my late husband’s diamond engagement ring on a silver chain.
I’d kept it with me all these years, more in memory of Anna—the one
good thing I’d gotten out of that relationship—than because of him.
I would sell the diamond if I had to. Even if I were starving, I
wouldn’t part with Llywelyn’s gift.

I sorted through my clothes. I had a
broomstick skirt and a blouse that might be useful. I rolled them
up tightly and put them in the bottom of my backpack, along with
all my underwear, two pairs of socks—I loved cotton socks and,
crazily, couldn’t bear to part with them—and all the little items
that might come in handy at some point. If anyone took a good look
at what was in my backpack, I was going to the stake, but I would
cross that bridge when I came to it.

Now what?
I looked down at myself and hesitated over what to
do. I wore slim khaki pants, a white t-shirt under a brown, suede
jacket, and boots that matched the jacket. With a sudden thought, I
rummaged through the leftovers that I’d dumped into the duffel and
found a tweed cap Anna had thrown into the bag before that fateful
trip to Philadelphia. After she disappeared, I couldn’t bear to
unpack it. I twisted my hair into a bun and pinned it to the top of
my head by wrapping a couple of scrunchies around it and then
pulled the cap on over the bun.

I tried to inspect the effect with the
mirror in my make-up compact. Although everyone said that Anna and
I looked alike, except for our hair and short stature, we really
didn’t. She was curvy and I had more of an athletic build. As much
as I had once lamented that fact (particularly when I was sixteen
years old and looked twelve), it could serve me well now. People
see what they expect to see, and unless I called attention to the
discrepancies, I hoped they’d think I was a boy.

I’d lived long enough in the thirteenth
century to know that a boy had much more freedom of movement then a
woman did. As a woman, I had no rights or status without a man to
provide them for me, and it was rare, if not unheard of, for a
woman to travel alone. When I had lived with Llywelyn, my status as
his woman had sheltered me from the harshness of life in the Middle
Ages. I had loved him so completely, I hadn’t given much thought at
the time to how different my experience would have been if a
peasant had rescued me instead of the Prince of Wales.

Now at thirty-seven, with
Llywelyn far away and unable to help me, I was more vulnerable than
I had ever been in any world, past or future. As a woman, if
strange men came upon me, I would have to rely on their honor not
to harm me, or I would have to trade my body for protection.
If I was even given a choice in the
matter.

After burying the duffel as best I could
under a bush near the Wall, I hoisted my pack onto my back.
Convinced I had no real alternative, I straightened my shoulders,
put my thoughts aside, and turned towards the west in the direction
of Wales. I started walking.

My sole concern was to avoid meeting anyone.
Fortunately, it was unlikely that any Scots would patrol this far
south, since Hadrian’s Wall was well into England and not a busy
place in the thirteenth century, with few farms or villages. I
didn’t know where I was along it, but I figured that would become
clear when I came to a guardhouse or settlement. I could see
several miles in all directions, and momentarily content, I turned
my thoughts to formulating some kind of plan. Unfortunately,
nothing was coming to mind.

My future began and ended with Llywelyn. I
couldn’t bear the thought of living the rest of my life in this
world without him. All my hopes centered on finding a way back to
him.

Chapter Two

I marched along the southern side of
Hadrian’s Wall, to the north of the road the Romans had built in
order to connect their forts together and so they could better
patrol their northern border. It was approaching nine o’clock when
I reached the remains of a fort where I could rest for the night. I
had passed the remains of fortlets which the Romans had placed
every mile along the wall, but none felt secure enough to stay in.
Besides, I wanted to walk as long as it was light.

My history told me that the major forts were
six miles apart, but this was the first one I’d come to. Either I
was walking more slowly than I’d thought, or I had missed one that
wasn’t actually attached to the wall or was so much a ruin I hadn’t
recognized it.

This fort was relatively intact, I was
pleased to see, with the walls standing well above my head, still
fifteen feet high. In the twenty-first century, this fort would be
nearly two thousand years old and much decayed. Now, it was only a
thousand years old and it made a difference to be here before that
extra thousand years of weather and people pillaging the
stones.

The darkness grew as I tried to find the
entrance. I had never been much of a night person, and dawn came
early to England in summer. Better to sleep now, if I could, than
walk on until it got completely dark and find myself without
shelter. I followed the wall of the fort as it jutted out
perpendicular to Hadrian’s Wall and walked some ways until it
turned to head west again. I hadn’t realized how big a three acre
fort could be. I had only been to a small section of Hadrian’s Wall
before (in modern times), near Newcastle, and had learned then that
the forts could hold more than a thousand men.

Finally, I reached the southern gateway and
crossed the threshold into a large space. It was magnificent. A
shiver went down my spine and I remembered again what it had been
like that first time in Wales, traveling through the countryside
with Llywelyn.

The fort stretched before me. A large
courtyard was surrounded by smaller buildings, mostly wrecked. I
headed towards those on the eastern side, looking for shelter so
that I could sleep, at least for a little while. I didn’t believe
that anyone would come to the fort so late at night—if they ever
came at all—but I didn’t want to be discovered if they did.

As with the Roman fort I’d passed through
with Llywelyn (I really wasn’t going to be able to keep him out of
my head, was I?), one of the rooms at the fort contained an altar
with a picture of a bull carved into the stone. Roman soldiers had
worshipped Mithras here, as part of the secretive, all-male cult
popular in the Roman legions.

I stood uncertainly in the doorway,
surprised to see footprints in the dirt in front of the altar and a
dark stain across the front of the stones, evident even in the
failing light.

The stain looked like blood.
Surely men didn’t
still
worship here?

Christianity had taken over
England long ago—but perhaps not everywhere. Perhaps a fringe group
found refuge here from time to time. I walked forward and ran my
hand gently over the stone. The worship of Mithras had involved
animal sacrifice, usually goats or sheep.
Please let this not be human blood!
No
matter what had made the stain, it had long since dried. I was
imagining things; perhaps the footprints were quite old and had
remained undisturbed for many years. There was a roof over this
section of the fort, so the outside weather would not have touched
them.

I backed out of the room and made my way
across the fort through the rubble to a different section. I
settled upon a private space built into the western wall of the
fort. It appeared to have once been a guard tower. It had a roof
that would protect me from any sudden rain, though I wasn’t
concerned about the weather. As changeable as weather in England
could be, stars glittered above my head, giving me enough light to
see by.

I set my pack against the wall, sat down,
and leaned against it. I unscrewed the cap to my water bottle and
tilted all but the last inch into my mouth. I would need to find
more water in the morning. Fortunately, there were many little
streams and rivers near the Wall. As I’d walked earlier, I had
gladly filled my bottle from them when I found them, hoping for the
best in terms of sanitation. I assumed there would be more as I
went along tomorrow.

Hadrian’s Wall was only seventy-miles long,
straddling the north of England with Newcastle in the east, and
Carlisle in the west. Even if I was quite far east when I started,
it couldn’t be long before I would reach a settlement where I could
find food. Two or three days without food, as long as I had water,
would not kill me. I scrunched down further and rested my head
against my backpack so I could stare up at the ceiling. I tried to
relax my shoulders and empty my head of worries. It wasn’t really
possible, but after I counted several hundred sheep, I fell
asleep.

* * * * *

I awoke to the sound of crying. Heart
racing, I sat up. My ears strained to hear better. Then it came
again, the distinct sound of a child weeping. I got to my feet,
took a few steps into the center of the room, and then thought
better of it. Instead of shouldering my pack, I stuffed it behind a
fallen rock and took a moment to layer several smaller ones over
it. It was the best I could do in the dark. I didn’t want to risk a
medieval person coming across it by mistake.

I hurried from the room, following the
child’s sounds and arrived in the main courtyard of the fort. The
moon had risen while I’d slept, illuminating the stones. A young
boy huddled with his back to the wall by the door.

I stopped short at the sight of him, truly
stunned. What on earth could a child be doing here in the middle of
the night? I glanced towards the room that held the altar, but no
light appeared inside it and it seemed the boy was alone. He looked
up as I approached and held out both hands as if to push me away.
“Don’t hurt me!”

I stopped again. For all that I’d been
working with medieval English (and medieval Welsh, of course) for
the last ten years, it took me a second to register what he’d said
and to orient my thoughts so that my words would come out
right.

“
It’s all right,” I said. “I
won’t harm you.”

“
Are you a
ghost?”

So
that’s
what he was thinking. Most
medieval people avoided the Roman ruins because spirits might haunt
them. “I am no spirit. Just a traveler like you.”

“
I’m not a traveler,” the
boy said, gaining courage. “I’m a squire!”

I closed the distance between us and
crouched in front of him. The shadow of the wall obscured his face,
but from his size, I guessed he was ten or twelve years old.

“
You are young for such a
big job,” I said. “How did you end up here?”

“
The Scots.” The boy spat on
the ground. “I rode out of Carlisle with one of my uncle’s
companies and we ran into—” The boy swallowed hard, unable to
finish his sentence.

I touched his hand and was glad when he
turned his palm face-up and allowed me to grasp it. “Did any of
your uncle’s men survive?”

The boy shook his head.

“
Where are they now, the
Scots I mean?”

“
Riding north—or they were,”
the boy said. “They didn’t tie my feet and I slipped off the back
of the pack horse they’d thrown me over. This was before the moon
was up. I ran here. I didn’t see anyone follow.”

“
So they captured you? Only
you?” I said.

He nodded. They’d wanted him for ransom,
probably, recognizing the fine cut of his cloth and that he wore
mail armor, even though he was just a boy. I was surprised the
Scots had ridden this far south, and even more surprised his uncle
hadn’t ridden with him.