“WOULDN’T IT BE EASIER to just lie down now and save you the trouble of having to pick us up afterward?” Sydney asked the room in general. They were still in her bedroom, only now there were five more people bustling around the room and Veris had a stethoscope slung around his neck, too. There were IV stands on either side of her bed and a cart of medical equipment that rattled metallically as Alex sorted through it.
It made the coming jump more of a reality than it had been until this moment. They really were going to do this…and without Alex.
“Don’t worry about falling down. We’ll catch you,” Taylor assured her, resting her hand on Sydney’s shoulder.
“It’s not the fall I’m worrying about,” Sydney told her. “I just thought it would save you the trouble, that’s all.”
“We’re not entirely certain if the position you jump in affects the way you land,” Brody said. “If you arrive lying down in the middle of a battle, that might be a bit awkward.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Rafe said impatiently. “I’m not going to jump us back into the middle of a battle.” He had been irascible all morning and everyone had been understanding about his flare ups, which had just made it worse.
“Do you have a moment picked out?” Veris asked. “Something you remember well, with lots of emotion?”
Rafe sighed. “A nice quiet moment when I was teaching Llewelyn’s son his letters.”
“You were a teacher?” Taylor asked curiously.
“I was Llewelyn’s scribe and he was determined his sons would be literate and educated.” Rafe shrugged. “It’s the most harmless moment I can remember of that time.”
Veris looked at him sharply. Then he moved his head in a tiny shake and turned away. Sydney wondered what it was he had not said and the knot in her stomach twisted a bit tighter. She swallowed.
Alex came over to her and took her in his arms. “Everything will work out,” he said, his voice low.
“Then why are you shaking?” she asked him, speaking by his ear and hoping that in this room full of vampires with super-hearing that no one else heard her over the activity all around them.
He let her go and held her at arm’s length. He didn’t try to smile or reassure her. She saw fear in his eyes.
“I think you have the hardest role, having to sit here and wait,” she told him.
“I always thought that when we did time jump, that I would be with you,” Alex said.
“The only thing you can count on,” Veris said, “is that you’ll be changing history just by both of you being there. You have to minimize your impact as much as you can. No whispering in the ears of kings and statesmen.” He was speaking loudly enough that Sydney knew he was speaking to both her and Rafe, who was on the other side of the room.
“Stop lecturing,” Brody told him. “They know this.”
“They know,” Veris agreed. “But they don’t really know. Not until they’ve done it.”
“Like you’ve never put a foot wrong on any jump you’ve made,” Taylor chided him.
Veris opened his mouth to protest.
“Marit was the result of a mistake,” Taylor added.
Veris blew out his breath. He didn’t say anything else, either.
Rafe crossed his arms, scowling. “If you don’t all shut up, right this instant, I’m going to kick every single one of you out of the room and lock the door. You’re driving me fucking insane. Can we please get this over with?”
Sydney wanted to cheer, for she felt exactly the same way, if not worse. She thought she might throw up if they didn’t get this done in the next few minutes.
Deliberately, she moved over to where Rafe was standing and glowering. She gripped his wrist and tugged his arms undone. “Let’s go,” she said. “Let’s get this done, then we can come back and tell Alex all about it.”
Rafe gripped her hand in his. “Yes,” he breathed.
Alex came up beside them and put his hands on their shoulders. He looked as though he was casting about for something to say.
“Don’t,” Rafe said, his voice a low growl. “I can barely stand this as it is.”
Alex kissed him. Then he pressed his lips against Sydney’s and she tried to take comfort in his touch, only she was shaking too badly.
Then, very deliberately, Alex stepped back, out of their reach.
Everyone else was watching them, now. Even Veris resisted offering one last piece of advice. However, that might have been because Brody had a grip on his shoulder and was squeezing.
Taylor’s eyes were big and her mouth was pressed closed, thinning her full lips.
Even Marit, who had been sitting on Sydney’s dressing table bench holding Mia’s hand, was not smiling.
They were all as afraid as she was.
So Sydney drew in a deep breath and let it out. She wrapped her arms around Rafe’s neck. “Kiss me.”
He focused on her and drew his arms around her waist. “I love you,” he whispered and kissed her.
They jumped.
* * * * *
The sun was bright and warm. That was her first impression. It was high overhead, a beating disk in the sky. The air was similar to a mid-winter L.A. afternoon, with the touch of coolness that told her that even though she wasn’t wearing a sweater, in a couple of hours’ time she would have to put it back on.
The smell was simply awful.
Sydney almost gagged at the wretched stench, as it caught at the back of her throat. Her eyes began to water and she wiped at them. The movement made her aware of the heavy and long sleeve over her arm and the edges of a veil around her face.
She looked around quickly. She had been gazing at the sky overhead, standing in the middle of a rutted street of hard earth. There were rows of small cottages on either side of her that were almost identical, with thatched straw roofs and walls of roughhewn wood. The window openings had no glass. There were shutters for each one, instead. Between the two buildings closest to her was a heap of refuse. She could see and smell rotting food and more. There was a watery run-off that meandered out into the street and was flowing along the ruts in the road.
The street looked the same as the paintings she had studied this morning before the jump, except that the paintings had not captured the stench…or the sound. There were people walking along the street and some sitting outside their houses on stools, their faces turned up to the sun just as she had been standing. There was a horse and cart heading in her direction, the wheels creaking and the horse snorting as it tackled the minor slope of the road.
Sydney stepped out of the way of the cart to the other side of the road from the midden heap and grew aware of the heavy layers around her legs. There were at least two and whatever she wore for shoes had soles so light she could feel the grit on the road beneath her feet. She was carrying a heavy basket over her left elbow and she hitched it into a more comfortable place as she moved.
While she waited for the cart to pass, she glanced up and down the street.
Where was Rafe?
There were many men moving along the street and most of them seemed to be heading downhill, which was the direction Sydney had been facing. They all wore short tunics and the bindings over their lower legs that she recognized from the images she had pulled up on Google. What the illustrations had failed to capture was the unexpected range of colors in the fabrics and the decorative edges that many of the tunics had.
Everyone seemed to have pouches hanging from their belts.
She looked down at her own waist. The top layer of her dress hung from her breasts, with big openings in the sides. It was a well-worn and faded brown color, while the layer underneath was a faded pale pink. There was a belt around her waist over that second layer and she reached underneath the top layer through the opening on the side and felt a soft leather pouch hanging from the belt. It felt light, as if there was very little in it.
There was another item dangling on the other side. She swapped the basket over to her other arm and felt beneath the top layer of her dress, exploring the shape.
It was a knife. A long one.
She remembered from the idle chatter of Veris and Rafe and Brody and Alex, and even Taylor, that a belt knife had been common throughout most of history. It was an eating implement, a defensive weapon for the common man, and a tool for everything from cleaning nails to shaving kindling from trees.
This knife seemed to be excessively long.
The top layer of her dress hid the long knife. The layer ended above her ankles, while the bottom layer was full and brushed the ground. The hem was stained and dusty, too.
Experimentally, she lifted the layers and peeped at her shoes. They were pointed, with leather lacings over the top, holding them to her feet.
The cart had passed by. It was heavily laden with chests and baskets of vegetables.
Was it going to a market? That would make sense. If it was a market day, that would explain the richness of colors and decorations in the clothing of everyone she could see who was walking down the street around the cart.
As Sydney had been facing in the direction the cart was moving, she decided to follow it. She could not stand here in the middle of the street forever. Perhaps Rafe was somewhere down in this direction.
Sydney took her time, stepping over ruts and puddles carefully, lifting her hems to stop them sliding through the muck, too. The basket over her arm was heavy and she shifted it from one arm to another. There was a cloth covering the top of the basket and she lifted it up to look beneath.
There were small cakes resting on the cloth beneath, perhaps two dozen of them. Had she been going to sell them at the market? Had she slipped into someone else’s life? No, that wasn’t possible. Even Taylor, when she had jumped to Constantinople, had not taken over the body of the woman she had looked like. That woman had drowned. Taylor had stepped into her life, not her body.
Where was Rafe? Why had he not arrived here with her? Was she even in Powys?
* * * * *
“Get your guard up, you young fool!”
The command was a full volume roar and Rafe threw up his sword arm instinctively.
The clash of steel upon steel came at the same moment as the impact jarred along his arm.
Rafe looked up at the heavy sword he was holding back only an inch from his head with a narrow-bladed sword of his own. There was a round shield on his other arm.
The man standing over him with both hands on the hilt of the great sword wore a mail hauberk. It wasn’t chain mail. The metal rings were sewn onto the leather jerkin, which made it almost as affective as chainmail.
No helmet, no gloves. A thick full beard on his opponent and yellow teeth. Glaring, blood shot eyes. Taller than Rafe by half a head and nearly twice his weight, most of it muscle.
Tegid, Llewelyn’s master-at-arms.
They’d made it.
“Slow, Rhys! Too slow! Again!” Tegid shouted. He lifted the big sword and swung it over his head to bring it down with most of his bodyweight behind the blow.
Rafe realized something he had never understood about Tegid in the all the days he had known him. The man was slow. Far slower than he was accusing Rafe of being.
Rafe merely stepped aside. As Tegid’s blade whistled through the air to strike the earth with a thud, he brought the flat of his sword down on Tegid’s back hard enough so that even through the leather and chain hauberk, it would sting.
Tegid hissed and spun, the blade moving with him. “You young pup!”
Rafe jumped out of the way of the blade tip, then deflected it with the edge of his shield. It was all coming back to him in a rush—all the sword-fighting skills he had learned in the many battles in which he’d had no choice but to fight, not if he wanted to live among the victors.
When he had first moved through this time, he had been still young, still green. Now he wasn’t.
He used the shield to knock Tegid off balance, then brought his knee up to ram into his descending chest, which always winded a man, no matter how fit he was.
Tegid fell onto the earth and weeds with a heavy grunt, his sword under him, and lay there trying to breathe.
Rafe propped himself on the sword and lowered the shield to the ground to rest against his thigh. “Are we done?”
Tegid tried to speak. He rolled over onto his back and nodded, instead.
Rafe picked up the shield and carried it over to the bench where the rest of the shields and swords were stacked and dropped them on the pile.
Siorus stood with his arms crossed, his mantle lifting in the slight breeze of the early morning. He had been watching the training, which was unusual. Siorus was Llewelyn’s chief advisor and preferred to measure the strength of the real army, not the mandatory daily training of the household.
“You’ve learned a thing or two,” Siorus said as Rafe resettled his belt and straightened his tunic.
Siorus was a tall man, like Tegid, although he had no excess fat on his frame. He also had far-seeing eyes, with wrinkles at the corners. They were a proper Welsh black, yet Rafe had often wondered if Siorus was as Welsh as his name implied.
“I’ve been listening to the soldiers,” Rafe told him. “I thought I would try some of the things I heard.”
“Things that usually take a man with greater strength than yours to pull off.”
Rafe gave him a stiff smile. “I am stronger than I look.”
“Indeed. Stronger than a scribe warrants, too.” Siorus rested his hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Preserve your strength, scribe. Aethelfreda will descend upon us for this trouble with the abbot. You’ll find yourself in a place where you can try all you’ve learned in the space of one battle.”
“So I heard,” Rafe said, as the right memories clicked into place. Aethelfreda was the uncrowned queen of Mercia. “The Lady of Mercia” was what the Anglo-Saxons called her. Some idiots from Brycheiniog had stolen across the dyke into Mercia and murdered Godric, the abbot of the monastery of St. Credan, because he had refused a British woman refuge for the night. No harm had come to the woman, who had found shelter at a nearby farmhouse, yet the insult to Britons had been taken personally.
Now Aethelfreda would be obliged to invade Brycheiniog in retaliation and Powys would have to help the little kingdom to the south defend itself from the Lady’s army. So Llewelyn was preparing for a march and a battle. That was why there were so few of the household training this morning. They were all busy with preparations.
Siorus did not bother Rafe anymore. He hurried away, around the corner of the big building, which was built in an L shape. The square nestled in the angle was where the daily training of the household took place, while the army trained and lived upon the field outside the walls of the fortress. Siorus was most likely going to see about their fitness to march. If this was the day Rafe thought it was, then the army would leave Mathrafel at first light tomorrow.
Rafe looked around the square, trying to make it seem as if he was simply taking in the beautiful day.
Where was Sydney? She should be somewhere nearby. Every tale Veris, Brody and Taylor had ever related and his own two short hops back in time told him that she should have been standing right next to him. She had not previously lived in this time, so she did not have a body to jump into, located in some far distant land. Not even Alex had lived in this time, so if he had jumped with them, he should by rights be standing here, too.
There was no one in sight except for the shepherd boy herding a pair of sheep into the butcher’s cot. Meat for the march.
From the field outside the town walls, Rafe could hear shouting, the clash of steel, hammers on wooden stakes, the bellow of men and beasts, all carried on the slight breeze.
From inside the house, he could hear women chattering as they went about their weaving and sewing. The clack of looms was an underlying rhythm.
Of course. A woman’s place was in the home, seeing to the clothing and feeding of their men. Sydney would be found there, not out here in the yard. No one here would suspect that she was more capable of tripping and felling a giant like Tegid than was Rafe.
Feeling happier, he moved inside. He would have to present himself to Llewelyn first, to see what his orders for the day were, then he would find an excuse to speak to Blodwen, the Lady Catrin’s head woman. While he was conferring with Blodwen, he could check the rest of the women where they usually gathered around the big tables during the day.
Once he had found Sydney, he could begin his search for the monk who was copying Nennius’ history, so they could help him write the new story he needed to insert into the book.
Then he and Sydney could jump home again.
It was a simple, straightforward plan and did nothing to interfere with the facts of history. Why had he been so worried about this?
* * * * *
She was being followed.
There were many people on the road, now. They were all travelling in the same direction, which confirmed that this was a market day, or a town gathering of some sort. If she followed the crowd, she would be guided to the event. Once there, she would circle around and look for Rafe.
Except that now she was being followed.
Yes, there were a lot of people behind her moving in the same direction that she was. However, instinct told her that someone was watching her.
The edges of the head cloth she was wearing did not allow her much lateral vision, so the next time a cart rumbled by her she stepped aside as others did, to watch it go by. Casually, she looked farther up the road, behind her.
There were three men walking together and one of them wore a metal over jacket that made her think of medieval knights and their chain mail. That probably meant this man was a soldier of some sort. He was unshaven and his forehead jutted over his eyes. He was watching her, while the other two were looking elsewhere. All of them were carrying flat leather sacks that bulged at the bottom. Wine or mead, or some sort of alcohol, she guessed. After all, this was market day.
She shivered and started down the road at a faster pace, moving past others with a murmured apology. Her hair, which was tied at the back of her head in a braid, bounced against her hips as she walked, which was a novelty that was quickly becoming irritating.
Her shoes slipped in the earth, for they had no tread to grip with. What she would give for a good pair of sneakers! She strode as fast as she could, then glanced over her shoulder openly.
The three men were keeping pace with her. That confirmed that they were following her.
Her heart thudded and she increased her pace until she was almost at the point of breaking into a run.
Ahead, the street ended and the straw-latched buildings gave way. She hurried forward. It was likely a town square and there would be many people there for her to hide amongst.
The three men apparently thought the same, because she heard one of them say sharply, “We will lose sight of her if she gets to the market.”
Her throat closed up. What did they want with her? And where was Rafe? He would be armed with at least a knife and would make them hesitate. She just had to find him.
Sydney could see the stalls ahead, between the heads of those in front of her. And she could hear the murmur of commerce.
“Quick. Stop her!”
Running steps.
Sydney began to run, too. Her feet in the sole-less shoes gave her no grip. She slipped and almost fell. Her basket banged against her hip and her braid fell forward over her shoulder, beneath the edge of the head cloth, to brush over the dirt. She recovered her balance and surged forward between the shoulders in front of her, but it was too late.
A hand snaked around her face and slapped over her mouth. A strong arm circled her waist. She was lifted off the ground and her basket tumbled.
Sydney kicked backward, struggling, as she was carried between two houses. There was the sound of heavy breathing behind her and echoing footsteps. She was being taken away from the square. Away from people.
She struggled harder, fear giving her strength. An isolated place was a dangerous place and there were three of them. She didn’t know what they wanted, although she could guess.
“Help me hold her. She’s strong, this one.”
Her legs were picked up and bound by another arm, reducing her struggles to helpless writhing.
They turned another corner and now Sydney could hear how lonely this place was. There were no more houses. Instead, there were terraces of earth, secured by walls of timbers. Three terraces, topped by a palisade. Far above the houses and farther away, she could see the tops of two wooden towers with tiny windows. There would be a gatehouse of some sort there. Between the terraces and the houses was twenty yards of open ground, dotted with weeds and neglect.
There was no one in sight.
“Here. This will do,” the man with the deep voice said. “Put her down. Hurry.”
She was being lowered to the ground. They were going to rape her right here among the weeds.
They dumped her on her back, confirming her guess. The hand that had been over her mouth was removed.
Instantly, she filled her lungs and screamed. “Help! Somebody help me!”
“Christ above,” one of the three muttered. “Shut her up!”
The heavy man, the one with the armor, leaned over her and backhanded her across the face.
Instantly, the side of her face went numb and her lips, too. She lay dazed.
The soldier settled over the top of her, his hands scrabbling at her dress. That reminded her of the knife on her belt.
She got her foot up underneath him, planted it against his chest and shoved as hard as she could.
He had already been on his knees, so all she managed to do was tumble him backward, which gave her room to roll over and get to her hands and knees. She screamed again. “Help! Help me!”
She saw movement at the tiny windows of the nearest tower.
One of the three men cursed and grabbed her braid and pulled. Hard.
Tears stung her eyes in reaction. Sydney blinked hard to clear her vision and reached beneath her dress for the handle of the knife. She pulled it out and kept the knife swinging up and around. The swing of her arm pulled her shoulder around. She leaned into it, the blade of the knife whistling through the air around and behind her.
The blade sliced open the arm of the man pulling on her braid.
He let go with a yell and grabbed at his arm.
Sydney scrambled to her feet and turned to face her attackers, the knife held out in front of her.
The soldier just grinned, showing yellow teeth. His eyes narrowed speculatively. “I like the ones wot wriggle,” he told her.
“What about the ones that spill your gizzards?” she said.
One of the other two lunged for her and she swiped at him and leapt backward.
The lunge had been a feint. The soldier came after her, using her distraction to get close enough. She corrected quickly, bringing the knife around toward him. He was already inside the radius of the knife. He gripped her wrist and squeezed, laughing at her. His bad breath washed over her face, making her moan.
Sydney rammed the heel of her spare hand up hard under his chin, putting her full bodyweight into it and driving her arm up with every ounce of muscle she could muster.
The soldier’s head snapped back as he lifted off his feet and she heard his teeth clack together with a sharp click. He fell heavily onto his back.
She didn’t wait to see if that would be enough. She landed on his chest with her knee and pushed the knife up against his throat. He was conscious enough to roll his chin up and away from the threat of the knife. He was breathing heavily.
“Halt!” came the command in a voice that rolled over them, rich with the tones of command.
The soldier beneath her stiffened.
The other two were still and silent.
Sydney dared to look away from the soldier for quick glance only. She didn’t trust him to lie still, not even with a knife at his throat.
There were more than a dozen people crowded around the end of the alley through which the three men had first carried her. Townsfolk, by the look of them. They had been drawn by her cries. They were watching with large eyes, many of them with hands to their mouths in surprise.
In front of them stood armed soldiers. She knew they were soldiers, because they wore more of the mail the one beneath her wore, plus helmets. They were carrying spears.
And standing in front of the soldiers was a man that by his dress and stance alone she knew was a superior officer or leader. His tunic came down nearly to his ankles and was a rich dark red, with braid or embroidery all around the hem. His boots were clean. His beard was neatly trimmed and shot with grey, while his thin face was unlined. He had dark eyes and he was standing with his hands on his hips, taking in the scene before him, with a scowl on his face. “Get up,” he told her.
Sydney rocked back on her feet and stood up. She put the knife away, so that the guards behind the lord would relax.
“Cover yourself,” the lord said shortly, lifting a finger toward her head.
Sydney felt her hair. The head cloth had fallen down behind her head. She felt around for the edges and drew it back up over her hair once more.
“You dare attack and fell one of the Lady’s own men?” the lord asked. There was absolutely no inflection in his voice. She couldn’t tell if he was pissed about it or not.
“There were three of them,” Sydney pointed out. “They were going to rape me.”
There was a gasp from the people behind the soldiers. This, she realized, was entertainment for them. There were even more of them now, as people silently slipped through the alley and gathered behind to watch.
Then she focused on what the lord had said. Lady. The Lady. Was she in Mercia, then?
The lord examined her. “That would explain why your dress is in a state of disrepair,” he said dryly.
She glanced down. The top layer was torn from the hem almost to her hip, and the pink underlayer was showing through the gap.
“This was my best dress,” she said, then wondered where that had come from. Clear in her mind was the knowledge that her other dress was not nearly as grand as this one, for it was her everyday dress and needed replacing, although cloth for garments was expensive….
She lifted her chin and looked the lord in the eye. “They should pay recompense,” she said as firmly as she could.
“Get him up,” the lord said, indicating the soldier at her feet.
Two of the soldiers behind the lord put up their spears, handing them to those beside them. They hurried forward and pulled the soldier up onto his feet. He hung between them, breathing hard.
“Does the widow speak truly?” the lord demanded.
Widow. Sydney recalled Taylor telling her that sometimes when she jumped back, she jumped into a life that was fully formed, with others of that time knowing who she was, while she had to sort out for herself the facts of that life while not giving herself away.
If Sydney was a widow, that would cover her advanced age and lack of male escort.
Where was Rafe?
The soldier coughed and spat on the ground. “She enticed us with her wares and her wiles.”
Another murmur of shock went up from her audience.
Sydney grew wary. Women suspected to be of loose morals did not fare well throughout most of history. She had to cut off this line of speculation immediately.
“I am a virtuous woman,” she said firmly. “Ask anyone who knows me. I was bringing cakes to the market to sell. These men waylaid me.”
“Where are your cakes?” the lord demanded.
She looked around. “I dropped the basket. It will be in the town square somewhere if no one has stolen it already.”
“Look for the basket,” the lord said, speaking over his shoulder. Two more of the soldiers pushed back through the crowd and disappeared down the alley.
He considered her once again. “The man you bested is one of the strongest in the Lady’s army.”
Sydney glanced at him. “He might be strong, but he is slow and dull-witted.”
“Indeed,” the lord replied.
She thought he might be suppressing a smile. Hope made her heart beat faster.
The lord shifted on his feet, turning so that he could address everyone standing in the narrow area between the houses and the terrace. “Osgar will be flogged and left in stocks for inspection until sunset. He has trifled with a woman against her will.”
“My lord!” Osgar protested.
The lord glanced at him. “Be thankful the lady was able to withstand your attentions, or we would be speaking of beheadings, not floggings.”
There was movement from the back of the crowd. A soldier pushed through and stepped up to the lord. He held up Sydney’s basket for inspection. “There’s a few cakes left in it. Most of them have been taken.”
“Bring the basket,” the lord told him. “And bring the widow. Everyone else, return to your business.”
He moved through the crowd in a direct line, as if he expected everyone to step out of his way and Sydney watched in surprise as everyone moved aside, clearing a path for him.
The soldiers followed.
One of the pair that had been holding Osgar up gripped Sydney’s elbow. The second soldier was pushing Osgar into a slow walk. “Come, widow,” the first growled.
“To where?” she asked.
“You’re to see the Lady herself. Mind your manners and your tone. You’ll not fare as well with her if you’re as cheeky as you were with Wulfstan.”
They moved through the same cleared tunnel that the Lord Wulfstan had used and Sydney scanned the faces as they passed by.
None of them was Rafe’s.