Exiles in Time (The After Cilmeri Series), Page 2

  “Excellent.” Callum got out of the car, checked that his earpiece was working properly, and headed towards the castle gate. His trench coat with the collar up didn’t fit in with the re-enactors, but at least he wasn’t in black like his men. Their coats hid their firearms from the crowd, but they still looked like cockroaches on a bed sheet. At this point, however, it was too late to find them medieval clothing. It wasn’t as if Callum could buy that kind of attire at Marks and Spencer.

  Welsh gun laws were more than strict. People weren’t used to seeing weaponry outside of their televisions. Callum didn’t wear his gun openly either. He didn’t want to intimidate the innocent onlookers more than he had to. Callum wanted this to be easy. It should have been easy from the start.

  Callum eased through the crowd, smiling and nodding, trying to blend in and pretend he enjoyed medieval pageantry. All the while, he cursed the rain, the bad luck that had brought Meg to Chepstow on this day, the errant custodian who had only just arrived, and Smythe for his initial heavy-handed approach to their fugitives. Remarkably, Smythe had never learned that much more could be accomplished with honey than with vinegar.

  As promised, the custodian was waiting for Callum at the castle entrance and unlocked the door as he approached. The custodian didn’t immediately push the door open, however; he just stood there, gabbing at Callum. “I don’t understand what this is all about.”

  “You don’t need to,” Callum said.

  “If something untoward is going on, I need to know about it,” the man said. His expression told Callum what he thought of this insult to his authority.

  “No, you don’t.” Callum put his hand on the door and shoved it inward with enough force to knock the door handle from the custodian’s hand. The custodian sputtered his disapproval, but Callum pushed past him and entered Chepstow’s lower bailey.

  He was alone for only a minute before a host of organizers and re-enactors followed. With them came Callum’s men who would watch for Meg from inside the castle. Before they set about their task, Callum took them aside. “I want you on the walls and in the doorways between the baileys. We stay in constant communication.”

  “Yes, sir,” the men said in unison.

  Callum then did a complete survey of the interior of the castle, all the way up to the rear door. It was locked. He returned to the lower bailey and entered the gift shop, looking for the custodian. The man wasn’t happy to see Callum, but he delegated the ticket taking to someone else and gave Callum his full attention. “Tell me about the back gate,” Callum said.

  “It’s always locked,” the man said. “Only the groundskeeper and I have keys.”

  “Is the groundskeeper here today?”

  “He’ll be along in a minute,” the custodian said.

  “Send him to me when he comes in,” Callum said. “I’ll be on the balcony off the wine cellar.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Having little faith that the custodian would do as he requested, Callum asked Natasha to let him know when the maintenance worker arrived. He was sorry he’d rubbed the custodian the wrong way, but Callum had a job to do. It was ridiculous for the man to question how he did it.

  Callum made his way through the kitchen, already busy with preparations for a medieval meal, down the stairs, and into the wine cellar. Chepstow Castle was in better repair than many ancient fortresses since it had never been taken by an enemy force in battle. Still, it wasn’t what one might call habitable, having lost its wooden infrastructure—specifically the roofs to all its buildings and halls—centuries ago.

  The room in which Callum found himself now, however, was built in stone. Contemplating the rain, he stood in the doorway to the balcony that overlooked the Wye River. He couldn’t help but think about the men who’d lived here centuries ago when the cellar was full and the purpose of the castle was to stand as a last bastion of English strength against the miles of Wales to the west.

  Seven hundred years ago, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, the man Meg claimed was her husband, had died and Wales had fallen to England. Callum hadn’t lived in Wales very long, but only an imbecile could have failed to notice how many Welsh people wished that had never happened. Callum stared at the puddles forming on the uneven stones at his feet. He wished he could speak to his father, who’d have had a thing or two to say about the day Callum was having.

  From the back of the wine cellar, perched on a building stone that could have fallen off the balcony wall four hundred years ago, Callum called in to Natasha. “What do you see?”

  “I —crackle, crackle—someth—crackle, crackle—”

  “You’re breaking up.”

  “I —crackle, crackle—”

  “Forget it. It’s my fault. I’m coming up.”

  Natasha was right that waiting for Meg in the wine cellar was a waste of his time, especially since the stones blocked the reception for his earpiece. Callum had allowed the knowledge that Meg had eluded them so far to cloud his thinking. He was ascribing superpowers to a pregnant former history professor burdened by two older men, one of whom was fresh out of hospital. If Callum hadn’t felt that his job was somehow on the line, he would have laughed out loud at the absurdity of his situation.

  Callum came out of the former great hall of Chepstow Castle into a dramatically changed scene. When he’d entered earlier, the castle had been just starting to fill. Now, an expansive pavilion had been set up in the center of the lower bailey. Tourists streamed through the gift shop, heading towards either the pavilion or the middle bailey, where Callum could hear a speaker welcoming everyone to Chepstow Castle. Three of Callum’s men observed the movements of the crowd from the battlement, and two more stood in the doorway between the middle and lower bailey, checking the face of every person who went through it.

  Callum tried Natasha again. “Where are we?”

  “I’ve moved Ted and Agent Driscoll inside the gift shop,” Natasha said. “Ted was getting restless and cold.”

  “How well can he see from there?”

  “He can see better,” she said. “We’re having people remove their hats and hoods once they’re inside—for security purposes.”

  “Excellent,” Callum said. “No sign of them, I assume?”

  “No, sir.”

  That wasn’t excellent. While Callum had been speaking to Natasha, the speaker in the middle bailey had released the crowd, which surged into the lower bailey. A girl brushed past Callum lugging an iron pot. It was so heavy, she needed both hands on the handle to carry it. Steam rose from the liquid inside, wafting the scent of beef and barley stew in his direction.

  Uncertain about his next move and sure that he was missing something important, Callum moved closer to the castle entrance. He spent a few minutes scanning the face of every tourist who entered the castle. With each person who passed by, Callum’s irritation and suspicion rose, until he remembered that he hadn’t yet spoken to the groundskeeper.

  “Who’s watching the back gate?” Callum said, cutting through the chatter amongst his men that came constantly through his earpiece. He hadn’t cut them off earlier in large part because men standing around talking looked more natural than men glaring at the crowd.

  “Agents Jeffries and Leon, sir,” Natasha said.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Agent Leon said, “but Chapman and Stevens were assigned to the rear of the castle. Jeffries and I have been up on the wall in the middle bailey for the last thirty minutes.”

  “That’s not right, sir. Chapman and I were tasked with watching the car park,” Stevens said.

  Bollocks. “Stevens, check the back gate. Jeffries, find the groundskeeper.”

  “They haven’t slipped past us from the front,” Natasha said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “I’m going to have a look at the cellar again as a precaution,” Callum said.

  Of all the times to screw up the assignments. That had been Natasha’s job, but it was ultimately Callum’s responsibility. If he couldn’t stop Meg from jumping off the
balcony, the head that would roll would be his. Callum trotted back into the passageway that led to the wine cellar.

  Tourists’ wet boots had made the stones slippery, and Callum was glad for the good tread on his rubber soled work shoes. No electric light or torch guided his feet as he descended into the darkness of the wine cellar, but as he neared the bottom of the stairs, dim light came from the doorway to the balcony. Callum reached it a second later and pulled up, stunned by what he saw.

  “Stop!”

  At Callum’s shout, the woman—Meg—pushed back the hood of her cloak and glanced over her shoulder, letting the rain sweep into her face. Goronwy, the shorter, squatter, and greyer of the two men, already stood on the wall that overlooked the Wye River. He glared at Callum, who couldn’t blame him, given that for the last twelve hours MI-5 had chased him across the length and breadth of Wales. All three fugitives looked as tired as Callum felt.

  Goronwy’s hand strayed to the hilt of his sword, but he didn’t draw his weapon. Llywelyn didn’t even glance at Callum. Instead, he hoisted himself up onto the stones to stand on the wall beside Goronwy. It wasn’t a wide wall, either, maybe a foot deep. Both men balanced there securely, even Llywelyn with his gimpy heart.

  “Please. Let us go.” Meg clutched her skirt in one hand and gripped Goronwy’s hand tightly with the other.

  “Don’t make another move except to step down slowly. I need you to come with me.” Callum put a hand to his ear, noticing the absence of conversation, and realized that his earpiece had gone on the fritz again, blocked by the stones above his head.

  Meg dropped her skirt and reached for Llywelyn’s hand. “We can’t. We have to go home.”

  While Callum watched, helpless to stop them, the two men lifted her onto the wall. Callum took a step forward, one hand out, fumbling with his other hand in the pocket of his trench coat for his phone. What he didn’t do was pull his gun from its holster under his suit jacket. Callum needed to end this before it escalated further, but not with a bullet wound.

  He pressed ‘talk’ and put the phone to his ear. As the phone rang, Meg, Llywelyn, and Goronwy sidled closer together. Goronwy and Llywelyn clutched Meg around the waist while she slipped her arms under their cloaks and held on.

  Even as Natasha picked up with a distant Hello? Callum lowered the phone.

  “Don’t do it!” he said.

  “Sir?” Natasha’s voice came from Callum’s phone.

  Callum wanted to answer but the situation was too delicate. A wrong move by him might encourage them to jump. If Callum couldn’t come up with the right thing to say, that headline on the front page of the national rag was going to be written after all.

  Then feet pounded in the corridor above him, the metal fittings of boots rapping loudly on the stones. Callum didn’t know if Meg heard the noise or if it was an instinctive twitch from him that gave the game away. As Meg bent her knees, Callum dropped his phone, took a step, and threw himself forward in a flying tackle. He managed to wrap his arms around Llywelyn’s shins, but he was too late. Their feet had left the balustrade. Their combined weight and Callum’s momentum carried him over the wall.

  The water rushed four stories below him. As he fell, seconds passed as if they were days. He forgot to breathe. And then a great chasm of blackness opened beneath him and swallowed him whole.

  Callum hit the river and went under.

  Six Months Later …

  Chapter One

  May 1289

  Kings Langley Palace, Hertfordshire, England

  Callum

  Callum brought his sword down on David’s shield and then sidestepped a countering move by mere inches. The king had gotten the jump on Callum early in the fight and had kept him on the defensive ever since. The two men drove back and forth—thrust, parry, block—until Callum’s arm was shaking with the effort. For the mock fight, they were using blunted swords that were a half pound heavier than Callum’s personal blade. The added weight made the fourteen years Callum had on David and the years of swordplay David had on Callum more evident with each minute that passed.

  David’s shield splintered. He dropped it, leaping to the attack with two hands on the hilt of his sword. Callum countered yet again, using his greater weight to push back until the two men grappled together, their faces a foot apart. They’d been going at it for half an hour now. David had cleared the small courtyard of watchers, but Callum could feel the eyes of the garrison on them, watching surreptitiously from the battlement and the top of the keep.

  “Enough!” David shoved Callum away from him.

  Callum dropped his sword and shield to the ground and bent forward with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. “Give up, do you?”

  “I wouldn’t want an old man to get hurt.”

  “You’re only twenty,” Callum said. “I wouldn’t call that old.”

  David laughed and gazed at Callum with that particular expression he often wore—of amusement and intelligence and am I really the King of England? He didn’t often turn it on Callum, and it made Callum straighten and forget the fight, instantly wary of what might be coming.

  “You’ll have muddy roads all the way north, unless this good weather lasts,” David said.

  Callum swallowed down laughter and incredulity. “So that’s what this was all about? A test? You wanted to see if I was ready to go off on my own?”

  “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 Cal
lum 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.