25 September 1066
Jorvik, Earldom of Northumbria
Kingdom of England
Chilly pre-dawn air sent shivers skittering through Haakon's half-naked torso. His Timepiece grew hot in his hand, and then flashed an emergency shutdown message. The damage from the lance back in Scarborough must have finally turned it to toast. He stuffed the now-inert icon into his pocket and shook his fingers to cool them off. The local Timekeeper station inside the monastery would be able to give him a replacement.
The only good thing was that his flaky Timepiece might have kept the Russian—Kutzenov?—from tracing his location. At least, that fiend Corbett had said they couldn't read the record of his jumps. With any luck, he wouldn't have to worry about Russians in 1066. He was due for some luck.
He set his lips in a firm line and slogged through the muddy field toward the monastery. Sheaths of rye, tall as a man, stood in rows, like shaggy teepees, casting ominous shadows in the moon glow. He winced as the stubble of the recently scythed field bit into his bare feet, but hastened his pace. On the off chance the Russians followed, he needed to be in the safety of the Timekeeper station.
The straw-and-wattle walls of the monastery hulked less than fifty meters away. As he approached, he clenched his nostrils against the pungent scent wafting from the adjoining pigsty, where sows lay snoring with piglets attached to their nipples. Haakon started when a stoat stood amidst the weeds and trilled at him. Out of habit, he muttered, "Greetings, neighbor," fending off the bad luck the locals found in such an encounter.
The dirt path leading to the monastery's gate was a welcome relief from the coarse rye field. He tugged on the leather strap, pulled the roughly-hewn gate open, and rushed through. A monk sat just inside, his features shadowed by his cowl. The flickering light of a candle sent shadows chasing darkness across the square. A scroll, pen, and ink rested on a table in front of him. Snores growled from the windowless walls of the nearby dormitory.
The monk jumped to his feet, and his face lit as he inspected his visitor. Haakon recognized Ralf's pleasant features, and a smile bent his lips. "Ralf, my good man. 'Tis a relief to see you survived our adventure in Scarborough. You and your charges are safe, then?"
Ralf grasped Haakon's hand in a double fisted grip that threatened to crush bones. "We are indeed, my Lord. It is a blessing indeed that you are not dead at the hands of those heathens." He inspected Haakon's bruised features and half naked form. His eyes widened, and a scowl furrowed his features. "By my faith in Saint Mary, what mischance brings you here in such a sorry state? What have those Viking devils done to you?"
Haakon gripped the monk's shoulders. "Brother Ralf, thanks be for your concern, but I needs speak forthwith to the Abbot. I pray thee take me to his quarters."
Ralf hesitated for a beat, but then snatched up his candle and led the way, using one hand to protect the guttering flame. Haakon followed him to a thatched hut that snuggled in one corner of the square, near the chapel.
Ralf chattered while he led the way. "You'll be pleased that the Lady Catherine and her child are safe. The Abbess arranged safe passage for them to France." Haakon supposed that was best, especially if Anglo-Saxon royal blood pumped in the child's veins.
They reached the Abbott's quarters, and he pounded on the door and called out, "Abbot, I prithee wake. Brother Haakon seeks your counsel."
Haakon pushed Ralf to one side and muttered, "Thanks be to you, dear Brother. The Abbot will forgive my urgency." He shoved his way inside and blinked to adjust his eyes to the gloom. Fingers of dawn flitted through window slits cut into the walls and illuminated a portly man kneeling before a stone altar.
The man grunted to his feet and adjusted the belt about his black tunic. He glowered at Haakon and asked in modern English tinged with a Scottish brogue, "What's so important that you have to interrupt my morning prayers?" The Celtic cross about his neck glimmered in the faint light.
Haakon ignored him and instead rushed to the altar. He traced a sequence of strokes across the surface, and the Latin scriptures engraved in the stone came to life, writhing and glowing. Without taking his eyes off the temporal station's controls, he muttered, "With any luck, I can cloak the exact coordinates of my arrival."
The Abbot peered over his shoulder and grumped, "And why should you need to do that? Report."
Sonics whined through the room, and a faint scent of ozone burned Haakon's nostrils. He sighed in relief at the readouts. No one had followed him—at least, not within a hundred meters of the spot in the rye field where he'd landed. "I transited here from Chicago, in October of 1962 CE. I'll need to report in to Control, but by all indications a Deviation is spreading through the continuum. It's already fouled the Cuban Missile Crisis. I just managed to escape to here."
The Abbot looked as if Beelzebub himself had burst into his quarters and cursed God Almighty. "A Deviation? And you thought to escape to here? Do you have any idea how dangerous it would be to bring a Deviation to this era?" His voice dripped with scorn.
"Of course, although 1962 is almost as sensitive. As to bringing it here—I think this is where it started." Haakon frowned as the readouts on the station continued to stream. "Do we have agents inside the Minster?"
"No. Just here in the monastery."
"Well, someone jumped from 1962 to the Minster about fifteen minutes before I arrived." He paused to consider. "It must be that Corbett woman. But why would she go to the Minster instead of here?" And why drag Nathan along?
That elicited a frown on the Abbot's jowly features. "Who? Corbett? Rumor has it that Vidamesse Corbett"—he pronounced the name Cor-bay—" is in the Minster, as part of a delegation from William the Bastard. Is that who you mean?"
"Could be," Haakon mused. "Raven hair, skin like snow, a soul cut from stone?" He grimaced as he realized he'd just described the evil stepmother in Disney's Snow White.
"Aye, a heart filled with ice instead of human kindness. That's her."
Haakon pinched his nose to suppress a sneeze. Must be the dirt floors, or maybe the rye. Damned allergies. The 'docs would handle those soon enough, along with his face. Concentrate. What was Corbett up to? Nathan had to be with her, inside the Minster. It wouldn't do for the poor fellow to get swept up in King Harold's army when he arrived later this morning. If the King's thegns didn't do him in, the Vikings would mow him down like a John Deere in a Kansas wheat field. Haakon glanced back at the Abbott. He needed to confirm the timeline. "Are the Vikings still in York?"
"Nay, they went back to their fleet at Riccall. They're to return to Stamford Bridge at mid-morning, where they expect to receive more hostages and Danegeld."
"And where they'll find the Saxon army instead." Haakon narrowed his eyes. "Where exactly is the good King Harold?"
"He's camped on the Roman road near Tadcaster, along with his Huscurls, royal Thegns, and five thousand men-at-arms." The Abbot's soothing voice and placid expression didn't reassure Haakon. His expression must have revealed his doubts, because the Abbot continued, "Just as he should be. All is in order. There are no Deviations here."
Haakon rubbed his brow and tried to think things through. "Maybe, maybe not. At least the Vikings seem to think York is still under their boot." Why would Corbett have taken Nathan to the Minster as opposed to here, the Timekeeper enclave in York? And why was she using a friggin' French title? Maybe the rumors of Duke William conspiring with Hardrada and his Viking horde were true. And what about the sack of Scarborough happening a week early? The Abbott acted like that hadn't happened. In any case, Haakon's instincts all screamed that something was seriously wrong.
At least for now, neither the Viking nor the Saxon army was inside York. That gave him a window of opportunity. At a minimum, he could send Nathan back to the monastery where he would be safe from King Harold's call to arms. Haakon's lips firmed in decision, and he uttered the words that should trigger action on the part of the sclerotic local Timekeeper bureaucracy. "There is a Deviation in process. By my Authority as a Special Timekeeper Agent, I declare an emergency. We need to stop Corbett, whatever she's up to."
The Abbott's head snapped up, but he frowned and his voice showed doubt. "I tell you there is no evidence of a Deviation. You must be mad."
Haakon jabbed at the readout on the altar/time station. "Do you have any record of Timekeepers in the Minster?"
"No—"
"Of course you don't. Yet the readout shows someone jumped there just minutes ago. I tell you, I was at Scarborough the day it fell, and I saw an anomaly. One of the Viking warriors wore a helmet from the twentieth century, with a commercial logo. Harley Davidson. You've heard of it?"
"Of course. But we would have heard of that kind of—"
"Really?" Haakon snapped. "Everything here is hand-made. Nothing is standard. That helmet wouldn't get a second glance from a native. Only a Timekeeper would know the significance." He chewed on his lip. Chaos knew what other surprises might lie in wait. "Get a crew of oblates together. We need to enter the Minster and find out what's going on. Contemporary weapons only. Except for me. I want a Taser. I need a replacement Timepiece, too."
"I don't think a Taser is wise." The Abbot's back firmed. "You don't have the authority—"
Haakon snarled, "You're arguing with me about authority? You, a bureaucrat arguing with me, a Timekeeper? When we're in the midst of a Deviation? You'll do as I say or I'll gut you myself."
The Abbot's face darkened, and his jaw muscles jumped. "On your head be it, then." He stomped from the room, and soon muffled voices sounded from the cloister.
A wave of fatigue swept over Haakon, and the room spun about him. He collapsed onto a bench facing the Abbot and tried to massage the deep ache out of his shoulder wound.
A knock sounded at the door, and Ralf's gentle baritone filled the room with guttural Anglisc syllables. "Brother Haakon, 'tis I. We've brought you sustenance and fresh clothing."
"May the good Lord bless you, Brother, and pray do enter," Haakon called out.
Ralf entered, carrying a candle and a steaming bowl of soup. A novitiate with shaved tonsure, no more than age twelve, followed carrying burlap robes, a pair of sandals, and a bowl of ale.
Haakon inhaled the heady odor of lamb stew, and his stomach ached. "That smells heavenly." He accepted the bowl and slurped at the contents.
Ralf favored him with a half grin. "The Abbott's holy duties sometimes consume him. It falls to me to remember for him our Savior's commandment to do unto others as we would have them do unto us."
"You serve him well, Brother." Strength was already returning to his stiffened muscles and his mind cleared.
Haakon finished the stew in a few swift gulps and swigged down half the ale. He eyed Ralf and asked, "Have you eaten, my friend?"
The monk shrugged and shook his head. "I fast during morning prayers."
Haakon pulled the coarse woolen robe over his body and bent to slip into the sandals. He glanced at his friend and said, "I understand. Take care today, Brother. Don't leave the monastery. Better, stay in the chapel. The King will pass through here seeking warriors, and you must resist his call. Mighty forces do battle this day, and many will die. Save yourself so you can do good deeds later."
"Well spoken, my dear Brother. I will consider your counsel." He gripped Haakon's hands in both of his and stared into his eyes. "I share the same advice with you. Many would miss you, should you fall afoul of those forces." His chin quivered, but then firmed. "I should miss you, my Brother."
Haakon stood and raised his arms to embrace Ralf, but the monk's head gave a tiny shake and he glanced at the novitiate. Haakon grasped him by the shoulders instead of hugging him and said in as hearty a voice as he could muster, "Fare thee well, my Brother. I shall see thee anon." He nodded to the novitiate and strode outside.
The early morning sun had chased the night's chill away. The day promised to be warm—unseasonably so for late September. A grim smile twisted Haakon's lips. So warm, he recalled, that the Vikings would leave their armor back with the fleet when they traveled to Stamford Bridge later this day. On such little things the fate of the mighty sometimes turned.
The Abbot rushed up to Haakon, followed by a rag-tag group of peasants carrying spears, axes, and one with a short, wooden sword. "There you are. My scouts have reported back, and it's looking like you were at least partly right. There's a Berserker in the Bishop's chambers in the Minster, and he's threatening a couple of Frenchmen. Vidamesse Corbett is in residence, too. There's not supposed to be any Vikings here this morning, and Bog knows what the French are up to."
Haakon nodded. "We must hurry, then. You have the items I requested?"
The Abbot glanced left and right, sidled close to Haakon and slipped him the Taser and a new Timepiece, a match for the old one that masqueraded as a Celtic cross. He whispered, "Be careful with these. They are the last in our stocks. We're closing this station down after Hastings next week."
Haakon's lips turned down. "I know how to handle distemporal equipment." Idiot bureaucrat, telling Timekeepers their business. "Lead us to the Bishop's quarters, then, and be quick about it."
Despite his girth, the Abbot took off at a trot with the oblates and Haakon close behind. The narrow, cobbled streets of York were still mostly empty at this hour, although the scents of bacon sizzling and the sounds of households stirring filled the air.
The Minster was in the center of the village, less than five hundred meters from the monastery. The Abbott led them across a courtyard to a one-story limestone structure that stood in the shadow of the Minster itself. An ebony battle horse gazed at them. It neighed and pawed at the cobblestones while its red-rimmed eyes roiled in its head. But it was well-trained and held its place.
The Abbot stuttered to a stop in front of the small building and next to the horse. He pointed to the door while gaping at Haakon. "That's the Bishop's quarters. What's next?"
Haakon deigned no answer, but shoved inside. He blinked against the darkness and assessed the tactical situation. A tall, gray-haired man in Duke William's livery held a badly-chiseled stool in front of himself as a shield. Meantime, an enormous Viking warrior, in full battle armor, surged about the room, swinging his broadsword and sending woodchips from the stool flying through the air.
In one corner, his eyes like saucers, Nathan huddled. His head turned to and fro with the flow of the battle, and fear gripped his features.
Haakon let a tiny smile play on his features. This was going to be easy. He pulled out his Taser and let fly at the Berserker. The probes hit the Viking at his one vulnerable point, in the side of his neck, exactly where Haakon had aimed. He thudded to the floor, writhing, while the buzz of the electrical charge filled the room.
The Frenchman dropped his stool with a clatter and leaned against the altar, his breath wheezing in and out of his chest.
Although a moment ago Haakon would have thought it impossible, Nathan's eyes grew even bigger. He husked, "You?" Then he stood on tremulous legs and quavered, "Somehow, I knew you'd show up."
Before Haakon could speak, a woman's voice rasped from the doorway in modern English, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Haakon whirled to confront Corbett. "Pulling your chestnuts out of the fire, of course. You might thank me."
"In the name of Time itself, have you never heard of a Deviation? You call yourself a Timekeeper. You're not fit to keep hog shit. Do you know who you just zapped, you idiot?"
"A Viking thug trying to kill my comrade, Nathan, and this guy, too." He pointed at the Frenchman. "While you're at it, you might tell me who you are."
"I'm a senior Timekeeper on a special emergency mission from Control." She pointed at the now-unconscious Viking. "That's the Viking of Stamford Bridge. Does that ring a bell?"
Haakon looked more closely and spotted the Harley-Davidson helmet. He recognized the warrior who had wounded Gunnar during the sack of Scarborough. "What the hell's he doing wearing a Harley-Davidson helmet?"
"We gave it to him. Over 99.8% of our simulations showed no Viking warrior holding off the English army at the Stamford Bridge choke point. No Viking means King Harold's army crosses the bridge and slaughters the Viking army before they can form a defensive perimeter. If that happens, then the full Anglo-Saxon force escapes, and that means there's a 75% chance King Harold is the victor at Hastings next month instead of Duke William. You've heard of him, right? William the Conqueror?"
That sent cold fear chilling Haakon to the core. If what she said was true, this was the worst Deviation he'd ever heard of. All of history since the Norman Conquest would vanish. No Guttenberg, or Mozart, or Einstein. No Jane Austin or Tolstoi or Joyce. Billions of lives gone, vanished into the quantum fog. "How do I know you're legitimate and not some kind of renegade?"
She sneered at him, her usually chalky features now aflame. "Idiot. Of course I'm legitimate. I told you. I'm on an emergency mission from Control to make sure that the Viking of Stamford Bridge is there to delay King Harold's forces. That's this Viking. The one you just Tased. The one we've equipped with modern armor and nano-docs, so it takes the English precious minutes to kill him. How does it feel to have put all of history and billions of people at risk? Asshole."