WHEN SYDNEY DEMONSTRATED A complete inability to spin, weave or sew, the conviction of the women of Aethelfreda’s household that she was a waste of air and food was locked in for good. Their condemnation was unspoken but eloquent.
Sydney didn’t care for a second, except that she was forced to share their quarters and the mattress seemed to grow thinner every night. The comb she had begged from Mave disappeared, as did other small items Sydney had acquired and that Aethelfreda and Alfwynn had given her.
It would have been relatively simple to pack some food and walk through the gates and across country to Mathrafel. She had studied maps in Aethelfreda’s chamber and already knew the way to the dyke. The guards would not stop her from leaving. Everyone knew who she was, now. Although she didn’t remember doing it, they said she had sliced open the giant who had tried to protect Rafe and that had earned her a type of respect that made both women and men step aside as she passed. If she wanted to leave, the guards on the gates would not argue with her.
However, Aethelfreda’s scout had returned with news that Powys intended to march upon Chirbury, which made it unnecessary to steal away from the town and Aethelfreda. If she stayed where she was, Rafe would come to her.
She wore her sword and long knife openly, every day, making sure they remembered who she was, for it helped smooth her days. As she had none of the requisite skills that a woman needed simply to get by, she was forced to trade on her combat skills. She had learned more about combat in the few minutes she had been forced to fight Powys than months of training and instruction had imparted. She felt comfortable using the small amount of expertise she had acquired as leverage in any way she could.
She also adopted the split gunna and undershirt that Mave had designed for her, asking for and receiving a second set of the military style clothing. She wore them every day, leaving off only the heavy mail jerkin. It further differentiated her in the eyes of the town.
Aethelfreda and Alfwynn included her in their war sessions with their senior advisors, which included Wulfstan and the army captains, so she was privy to any intelligence that Aethelfreda received about the approaching Powys fighters.
“Llewelyn marches even though he cannot yet walk,” Alfwynn told her. “He is reaping the anger of his army while it is fresh. We will need to brace ourselves.”
The town was preparing for battle. Men hunted daily and the meat was dressed and salted down for long term storage. The summer crops growing outside the walls were harvested early and most of it put to drying for storage. The palisade fence that surrounded Chirbury was checked for soundness and the brush cleared a full bow-shot from the walls.
The smith forges were kept bellowing all day and night as they worked to produce more arrows, more swords, more spears and more knives and helmets. Carpenters hewed wood and produced shields. Women made bandages and sewed iron rings to leather hauberks.
Hundreds of barrels of water were carted from the river and stored, too.
“You’re preparing for siege,” Sydney pointed out, shivering at the idea of it.
“Siege?” Alfwynn repeated, sounding puzzled.
“It’s a French word,” Wulfstan said, surprising Sydney, for he had shown no great education before now. “Sege,” he repeated. “To be locked in, surrounded for a long time.”
“It is a good word to describe such a condition. However, I have no intention of being held behind my own walls,” Aethelfreda said firmly. “When Powys arrives outside our gates we will be in a position of strength behind these walls and we will use that strength to strike back.”
“And the hostages?” Sydney asked, for the queen of Brycheiniog had been sitting at Aethelfreda’s supper table, too. She was a wan, silent woman.
“They are Brycheiniog,” Wulfstan said. “Powys does not march here because we stole another king’s kin.”
“It is the reason Llewelyn will give,” Sydney said.
“A reason that serves a purpose, that is all,” Aethelfreda replied. “We could release them this very night. It would not halt Llewelyn.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked Sydney up and down. “Your appearance is not that of a woman of my household, Sunngifu.”
“That is because the women of your household have gone to great lengths to ensure she cannot maintain a suitable appearance, Lady Mother,” Alfwynn said.
Sydney looked at her, startled. She had not spoken about the petty thievery to anyone.
Alfwynn rolled her eyes. “I withstood their company for not much longer than you have. I am wise to their secret and spiteful ways.”
Aethelfreda sighed. “Arrange something, Alfwynn. I do not want to be troubled by domestic squabbles. Not now.”
Alfwynn’s arrangement was to move Sydney into the small house Alfwynn was residing in while her mother stayed in Chirbury. A more properly filled straw mattress was installed upon a sleeping shelf in the front room and furs and covers added, along with a plump pillow.
“You will be my personal guard,” Alfwynn told Sydney, “except for when my mother has need of you.”
The first night Sydney slept upon the flat, hard shelf was utter luxury. She passed into sleep inside a single breath and didn’t move the entire night.
After that, Sydney dedicated herself to practicing her sword craft with the soldiers in the square each morning, attending Aethelfreda and Alfwynn as needed…and waiting for Powys and for Rafe to arrive.
* * * * *
The second day of travel passed without incident and camp was struck only six miles away from the dyke and the Mercian border. The pace was slow because there were so many of them and some were on foot.
Alex attended Llewelyn as the campfires were lit and good cooking smells wafted over the campsite, as the last of the weak sunlight faded. “It looks like bad weather coming up,” he said, looking up at the clouds.
“You are a prophet as well as a physician,” Llewelyn growled. He had to be in pain, for the bumping of the cart over every little rut and stone was putting stress on the stitches holding his leg together.
“I am prophetic enough to know that if you do not halt for a day and rest, you will lose this leg,” Alex told him firmly. “Look at the redness there and there.” He pointed at the inflammation raising the flesh around the stitches. “The stitches have been strained and those are just the ones I can see.”
Llewelyn hissed as Alex applied a warm poultice and re-wrapped the wound. “The heat will help draw out any toxins,” Alex told him. “If you would only give it a day of rest to do so.”
“Enough, Arab,” Llewelyn growled. “You seek only to slow my arrival in Mercia. My decision is made.”
“What is this?” Siorus said sharply, for he was standing by, watching Alex’s ministrations. “Why would he want to slow us down?”
Alex shook his head. “I would have preferred we not leave Mathrafel at all. Yet now we have, so the matter is closed.”
“Not leave at all?” Siorus repeated. “You mean, not fight?” Outrage tinged his voice.
“That is my meaning,” Alex said carefully.
“The learned physician is of the opinion that the Northmen of Dublin will rush to conquer us the minute I turn my back,” Llewelyn said. His voice was strained. He was tired and in pain and trying hard not to show any weaknesses to his men. “He would have me make peace with Aethelfreda and look to the west for invaders, instead.”
Siorus snorted. “They’re too busy fishing and praying to their endless parade of gods.”
“Not according to the good healer,” Llewelyn said dryly.
Siorus glared at him.
Alex sighed. “Not that it makes any difference now, but I believe two years of famine and disease will make them desperate enough to cross the straits once they know Llewelyn and his entire army are in Mercia.”
“Deheubarth stands between Powys and the coast,” Siorus pointed out. “They are strong allies.”
“Not strong enough,” Alex said. He didn’t expand on it. His attempt to change Llewelyn’s mind had failed, so he had nothing to lose now by speaking the truth. He also didn’t need to try and convince anyone, either.
He packed up his chest once more and made his way across the camp to where he had staked out his own small sleeping space. Atiya was cropping grass close by and the cart that carried his supplies had been left beside the fire for him. This would be a quiet night for him, a lull before the frantic work of dealing with war wounded.
Because he had spent years wandering the deserts with nomadic tribes, he knew how to take care of himself while travelling. In these green and lush valleys, he knew how to stay dry and comfortable while others suffered from cold and hunger. He was looking forward to some hours of solitude, to be alone with his thoughts.
Rafe was waiting by his camp fire, his arms folded, his head down as he kicked at the stones surrounding the firewood.
Alex’s heart gave a quick jump. “Rhys, your wound troubles you?” he asked when he drew closer. There were too many men sitting and lying within earshot to be able to speak freely.
“I was hoping you would come with me. There’s someone in need of your services.”
Alex put the chest back on the cart. “They cannot come to me?”
“No,” Rafe said flatly. “It’s…they’re not with the army.”
Alex looked at him. As the army physician, he should settle by his fire and dismiss Rafe. Yet this was an opportunity to talk to him, one that Rafe had not offered in three long days.
“What are the injuries?” Alex asked, opening the chest. “So I know what to pack,” he added.
“He…lost a hand.”
Alex hesitated. The most common reason someone lost a hand was thievery.
“Please, Alex,” Rafe said softly.
Alex nodded. He tossed supplies into the chest on top of the tools that stayed in there permanently and picked it up again. “Show me the way,” he said.
Rafe moved away from the camp, into the night and the sounds of an army at rest dwindled behind them. The night was cool yet not uncomfortably so. There was a breeze higher up, moving the trees to soft whispers and that would keep the mist away until later.
They walked in silence until the camp was far behind.
“Is there anyone at all that needs my attention?” Alex asked at last. It would be like Rafe to use an excuse to speak to him. His pride often stopped him from more direct action.
“There is,” Rafe said briefly.
“You were wandering far from the camp to find them way out here.”
“I was hunting,” Rafe said. “His blood drew me.”
Alex nodded. That made sense except for one thing. “You shouldn’t need to hunt at all,” he said. “Veris and Taylor are feeding you blood, keeping the fever at bay.”
“I needed the distraction,” Rafe said flatly.
Alex didn’t know what to say to that. They kept moving along the side of the valley they were in, as it curved to the north. He looked up at the stars wheeling overhead and found the familiar patterns and arrangements. These were the same stars he had studied in his youth, two hundred years in the future from this moment. They were the same stars he could find if he looked up at the night sky in Los Angeles, too. Their familiarity was comforting, in this strange world he found himself in.
“It is very quiet here,” he remarked. “No animals moving through the trees, no night birds.”
“The army has scared everything away,” Rafe said. “It will return to normal once we move on.” He pointed. “There it is.”
There was a pin prick of light ahead, that spoke of humans. The light grew brighter as they drew closer. It was jumping and flickering. A fire, then, not a lamp.
The cot that Rafe led him to was a round one, half buried in the earth, with growing grass for a roof and a hole in the center for smoke to escape. There were no horses or farm animals nearby and no storage for grain. It was the sort of hut that the poorest of the poor considered a luxury.
There was no door. A strip of heavy leather hung over the doorway. Rafe pushed it aside and they stepped down into the interior of the cot.
The aromas of animals and human sweat were masked by the smoke. The fire burning in the middle of the room was the only light. It sat on the earth floor, with nothing surrounding it. There was a flat stone pushed up among the embers and a small cooking pot sitting on the stone. This family was so poor they did not have a tripod or stand to hang the pot over the fire with.
As they entered, two children standing at the back of the cot turned to look at them, their eyes wide with fear. The older was a child of perhaps ten years of age. Alex could not guess the child’s gender. The younger was perhaps five years old, and dressed in the same sort of rough, stained tunic as the elder. They were both thin and dirty.
“Efa,” Rafe said. “How is he?”
The older child’s eyes seemed to grow even large. “He keeps talking. I don’t understand what he’s saying.”
The girl Efa was standing next to a sleeping shelf made of piled stones and dirt, lifting it a foot above the ground. There was someone lying on it, moving restlessly.
Alex stepped around the fire and over to the shelf. He looked at the two children staring up at him. Neither of them had moved out of the way. They were protecting the person lying on the shelf. “I am a physician,” he told them. “Let me see. I can help.”
“It’s all right, Efa,” Rafe said quietly. “Alexander can help. Let him see Bran.”
The younger child put their hand in Efa’s. Their eyes were the complete black of the pure Celt and they stared unblinkingly at Alex. Finally, Efa moved aside, pulling her sibling with her. Alex lowered himself to the ground, and looked at the patient.
It was another child. The lad was perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, spindly and long in the leg. He was writhing on the thin cloth he laid upon, his eyes closed. Sweat dotted his face and had soaked through his rough tunic.
He was cradling his left arm to his chest and where the hand should have been was a roughly bandaged stump. The rags of the bandage were dark with blood.
Alex steeled himself against the pity and horror rising in him. That would not help Bran right now.
Rafe came up beside him. “Bran and his brother and sister lost their parents over a year ago. Bran has been taking care of them since then. Five days ago, he heard there had been battle close by the dyke and he went to the battlefield to scavenge what he could find, to sell it for food. He was caught.”
“And they cut off his hand for it,” Alex muttered. He looked up at Rafe. “I will need water, boiled for as long as you can. Twenty minutes at least. I will do my best, From the smell and his temperature, I suspect an infection has set in.”
“Your best is far superior to every other man I know,” Rafe said, his voice low. He whirled and went to get the water.
It was the start of a long night. Alex had brought cleansing salves and the herbs that would help with infection. When he questioned Efa, he established that Bran’s fever had held for two days. “By morning, the fever should break,” Alex said quietly to Rafe as they worked together to clean the great wound and stretch and stitch flesh over the stump.
“And if it doesn’t?” Rafe murmured back.
Alex just looked at him.
Rafe sighed.
A short while later, he took the rough bow and three arrows sitting at the door and went hunting for meat. Efa had confessed that Bran’s last catch had been eaten early yesterday morning. Bran had managed to snare a rabbit, even in his weakened and injured state. Alex suspected that was why the infection had set in.
While he waited for the fever to subside, Alex helped Efa and Cefin clean out the cot, then made them curl up together on the other bed shelf. He dropped his cloak over the top of them and when he next turned to check on them, they were both sleeping soundly.
He went outside and explored. There was a blunt ax and some logs that had been poorly stored. He dug out the driest of them from the pile, sharpened the ax on a stone and split more wood and took it inside. Then he built up the fire so that good hot coals would be ready for whatever catch Rafe came back with.
Rafe returned not long before dawn. He carried a deer over his shoulders. “The marching army has driven everything away. I had to go a long way.” He dropped the carcass to the ground and used his belt to string it up from a tree. “Bran?” he asked as he stripped off his tunic and rolled up the sleeves of his undershirt. He started to skin the carcass.
“I’ll know very soon,” Alex said and went inside.
Bran’s fever had broken. He was cool to touch and was sleeping quietly. Alex inspected the new bandages once more. They were still clean and dry. So he woke Efa and explained to her how she should care for the wound until they could return. “It may be many days,” he added as she examined the pot of salve he was leaving behind. “I will come back to check on Bran and make sure the healing is progressing.”
“Will he be able to work?” she asked. Her face was grave.
Alex sighed. A ten year old in modern times would be more concerned about the latest designer jeans and Justin Beiber’s haircut. This child was completely focused on the survival equation. Would they be able to live if the eldest of them only had one hand?
“There are ways to get along with only one hand,” he told her. “He will work slower than he used to, but with your help and with Cefin’s help, he will be able to work.”
When Rafe brought in the meat, Efa turned to cooking it with a competent air.
“Salt as much of it as you can for later, too,” Rafe told her.
“There isn’t a lot of salt left,” she said.
“We’ll bring back more,” Rafe told her.
Alex left his cloak with them and he and Rafe walked back to the army camp, moving swiftly through the early dawn air.
“I know them,” Rafe said, breaking the silence.
“Clearly.”
“I mean, I knew them before.” He frowned. “Time jumping screws up language completely. I mean, I remember them from when I lived through this time. I met them shortly before the Viking raid and we all escaped into England together.”
“I see.” That explained the distress Rafe had been hiding when he had brought him here.
“They were my first family,” Rafe added quietly.
Alex stopped and looked at him.
Rafe shrugged, trying to make light of it.
“That is how you learned to like having a human family around you,” Alex said slowly. “You didn’t think it up for yourself. It happened accidentally.”
Rafe nodded. His gaze was steady. “Only, Bran never lost a hand, Alex.”
Alex started. “It’s happening differently this time…” he said slowly.
“You thought you hadn’t changed anything,” Rafe said. “So did I. Yet things are happening that I don’t remember.”
“We’re still marching to wage war on Chirbury,” Alex said. “If things are changing, it is only the smallest of changes and those changes are probably only because I am here and Sydney is here.”
Rafe sighed. “Do you want to explain to me why you think changing anything at all is a good idea?”
“Then you’re not angry, anymore?”
“I wasn’t angry to start with!” Rafe cried. “I was scared! I still am! You’re fucking with something you have no idea how to control. At least give me some reason, some excuse for interfering in this way.”
“Because I think I’m supposed to,” Alex told him.
Rafe stared at him, his eyes wide. “What?”
“I came through time with Marit’s help,” Alex said. “She pushed me across the timescape. I saw something while I was there. I saw…” He drew in a breath. “There were two time streams, Rafe. A big main artery and a little stream that branched off right here at this point in time. I don’t know how a stream just breaks off like that. When it does it creates…I think it creates an alternate history. I don’t understand the physics properly. Veris could probably give you chapter and verse on time and alternate universes and all the equations to go with it. I only know what I saw.”
“This…right now…we’re in an alternate history?” Rafe asked flatly. He sounded completely unconvinced.
“No, we’re at the point where the alternate history starts,” Alex said.
“Because you’re starting it!” Rafe shouted. “Gods, Alex, don’t you get it? You’re changing things. Deliberately. Of course time is going to shoot off in another direction. You’re driving it that way. You!”
Alex shook his head. “It was already there. I saw it.”
“Because time isn’t linear,” Rafe shot back. “Damn it, you know this better than I do. You’ve spent hours floating over the timescape with the linear restrictions gone. You’ve seen time in its raw state. If history branches off into an alternate stream it’s because you’re going to make it do it. That’s why it was there. You were seeing your own future.” He swore again. “There’s just not enough words to say it properly. You saw it because you created it and now you’re getting to do it, because you did do it.”
“No.” Alex shook his head. “It didn’t feel like that.”
“Fuck!” Rafe clenched his fists. “You’re going to kill us all because of some stupid belief!”
Alex stared at him. “Yes. That’s exactly what it is,” he said slowly. “I know what I know, Rafe. I believe it utterly. The branch, the alternate history, it was where we were before we jumped. Even before you and Sydney jumped. It wasn’t supposed to exist and it disappears, not too far ahead of the point where we are in normal time. I think that timeline ends because I’m supposed to change things. We change things. All three of us.”
Rafe stared at him. His chest was rising and falling rapidly. Anger and fear, a breathless mix of it. “You’re asking me to just…trust you?”
Alex sighed. “It’s called having faith.”
“I don’t believe in gods. Or your god, either.”
“Then believe in me.”
Rafe just looked at him. Alex heard the wind overhead, the only thing making any noise anywhere in the night.
After a long moment, Rafe turned and started walking again. “We’ll be late,” he muttered.
“They’ll wait. Llewelyn won’t travel without his army physician,” Alex said, as calmly as he could.
“This whole jump is turning into a free-for-all,” Rafe muttered. “A three ring circus on steroids. What the hell do I do now that things are changing on us?”
Alex grabbed his arm. “A circus!” he said.
Rafe glanced at his grip, then at him. “What of it?”
“A circus arena. Gladiators.” Alex shook his arm. “That’s it!”
Rafe rolled his eyes. “Gladiators died out a thousand years ago,” he pointed out.
“Then it’s time we reinstituted them,” Alex said firmly, picking up speed. “If we’re supposed to change history, then let’s really change it!”