Christopher
Christopher ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. It was shorter than when he’d arrived in Earth Two nine months ago, since washing it was out of the question a lot of days. Better to keep it only an inch long because then nobody would notice if it was dirty. Short hair meant he had no floppy bangs to hide behind, however, and he didn’t know that he’d ever been so nervous in his life.
He and Matha were risking their lives right here, right now. It was making Christopher’s mouth dry and his hands sweaty. He felt that in Ireland, when he’d been captured and made to stand before Aine’s father, he’d been almost too innocent to be nervous. Even when they’d taken Roscommon Castle from the inside, the hours of waiting had pretty much drained most of the anxiety out of him by the time they were actually able to leave their hiding place.
Since Ireland, he had a much better understanding of the badness that was possible.
But then again, maybe those experiences also made him realize that, whatever happened, he could survive it.
They approached the castle gate, and Matha stepped in front of Christopher to speak to the guard. Meanwhile, Christopher attempted to look bored, while praying that nobody at this castle had ever seen him in person.
“John Bulmer told us that we should come here tonight. I am Sir Matha of Breifne, and this is my squire.” Matha didn’t name Christopher, which they’d agreed might be more normal than not. Squires were unimportant in the social hierarchy, unless they were sons of famous men. Even then, they should be seen and not heard. Christopher could definitely see the benefit of keeping his mouth closed at all times.
The guard bent his head in a quick bow and waved them through, which Christopher was almost sorry about because it meant they were committed. Skipton Castle was pretty big as castles went, with a massive gatehouse that faced the town and a bailey the size of a football field. It also had a large central keep with five towers of its own. The keep itself was unevenly pentagonal, with a long side that abutted the curtain wall built on a cliff above the river below it. It was the same river that flowed past the house where Matha and Christopher were staying.
The setup looked a lot like Chepstow Castle, in fact, with the river cutting a deep channel behind the castle perched above it. Skipton was located here for a similar reason as Chepstow too, except in this case, the Eller Beck was meant to act as a barrier against marauding Scots rather than the Welsh. Unfortunately, it had done no good against Balliol, the King of Scots. Christopher had noticed as they’d left the mayor’s house that the town’s drawbridge remained raised. Nobody was getting across the Eller Beck without getting wet.
“Balliol had to have had someone on the inside,” Christopher said to Matha in an undertone as they crossed the inner courtyard and entered the keep.
“Shush. We are not talking about this right now.”
Christopher subsided, but he was still outraged on David’s behalf. It was crazy the number of people who thought betraying the king was a good idea. Then again, they’d probably done it because Balliol had assured them David would be dead.
Whoops.
He and Matha followed their noses towards the great hall, which was up a flight of stairs from the keep’s inner courtyard. The door was open, but nobody was really guarding it. They had plenty of guards throughout the rest of the castle, and with all the comings and goings, stopping people coming in and out of the hall would have stalled traffic too much. As it was, the great hall was packed with men, and Christopher followed Matha as they edged sideways to the right around the inner wall. They had entered the castle near the tail end of the meal, in hopes that it would make blending in easier. With the battles ahead still unfought, Balliol wouldn’t allow drunkenness, but watery beer would be flowing.
Matha tipped his head towards the end of one of the tables, where two men had just risen to their feet. Christopher and Matha hastily sat themselves down. Matha had his back to the wall, which gave him a better view of the room. Christopher had to turn in his seat to take in his surroundings.
A frazzled servant plopped two cups and a trencher in front of them. He waved his hand to indicate that they should help themselves to the platters that were already on the table. A couple more seats next to theirs cleared out, and Christopher stood to fill his trencher with meat and bread.
Only high-ranking men were allowed to eat in the hall, but with five thousand soldiers in the fields, that was still a few hundred knights, squires, and higher-status men-at-arms. The food would be doled out in quantity, but it would need to be kept simple. He speared a few potatoes too, laughing mockingly to himself that Balliol might not like the changes David had brought to Britain, but he wasn’t above taking advantage of the more stable food supply potatoes gave him.
Christopher sat back down and put the trencher between him and Matha.
“What are you doing here?”
The words came from behind Christopher, whispered urgently in his ear, and then Thomas Hartley stepped one foot over the bench and sat beside Christopher, facing him. His bright blue eyes glared.
Christopher had already taken a bite of bread, which he proceeded to almost choke on. Matha slowly lowered the cup back to the table, awareness in every line of his body.
Thomas eased back slightly and took a nonchalant drink from the cup he’d brought. “At least you sat in the back of the room. I think I’m the only one who has recognized you so far. You can’t be here!”
“Why not? What about you? We figured nobody would recognize me out of context and this far from London.” Christopher had swallowed his bread and recovered enough to defend himself.
Thomas looked daggers at Matha. “And you are?”
“I could ask the same of you.”
Christopher tsked through his teeth. “Matha, Thomas. Thomas, Matha. Both of you are companions to King David. There. Is that good enough?”
The two men reached out and grasped forearms. “A pleasure,” Matha said.
“Likewise,” Thomas said. “I’m here with Henri.”
Deciding a more detailed explanation now would save time later, Christopher leaned across the table and gave Matha a hurried summary of how he knew Henri and Thomas and what they’d done for David. He then told Thomas how he knew Matha.
“The Templars are supporting Balliol?” Matha attempted to cover up the way his face had drained of all color by taking a drink himself.
“Of course not. We’re spies, like you.”
“I thought Templars had to wear the cross at all times.” As a devotee of medieval history, Christopher had made it his business to know about the Templars long before he’d come to Earth Two.
“We … have learned some things since the king was almost killed in France.”
“Haven’t we all.” Christopher ate a piece of meat. “Where is Henri right now?”
“At the high table. He’s an emissary from the King of France. I’m his squire.” Thomas pulled a face. “It irks me to say so.”
“I’m Matha’s squire for this, though I was knighted after Tara.” Christopher had tried to stop himself from adding the last half of the sentence, but it came out anyway.
Thomas leaned in. “You were at Tara with the king?”
Christopher and Matha both nodded.
Thomas eased back again, casually looking around to make sure nobody was observing them. If someone was, they were far enough away that Christopher didn’t think they could overhear the conversation. “We arrived yesterday, a few hours after they took the castle, so we have gathered less information than we’d like. The king really is alive?”
Christopher and Matha nodded again.
Thomas continued to look pensive, as if he didn’t believe them. “Balliol has acknowledged that the king survived Ireland, but insists that another attempt on his life at Dinas Bran was successful.” He paused, both fear and hope in his voice. “Do you know about that one?”
“The attempt was made at Chester, if we are talking about the same one, and we were there when it happened,” Christopher said. “The assassin injured William de Bohun, but David is well. The English army is marching here now.”
Thomas let out a shuddering breath. “Praise the Lord.”
Christopher felt momentarily guilty at not mentioning Avalon to Thomas, but he didn’t feel like he should talk about what might not matter. David could have returned by now. And the army was coming.
“The king will be going to Barnard, though, not Skipton.” Thomas’s worry face was back.
“I sent riders south. They should know soon about the change of location, if they don’t already.”
Thomas looked Christopher up and down. “The Hero of Westminster.” He shook his head. “You really do live up to the name.”
Christopher scoffed. “You were as much a hero that day as I was. You and Henri.”
“That reminds me.” Thomas turned his head with studied casualness to look towards the high table where Henri sat.
Christopher had met both Henri and Thomas at Westminster in the aftermath of Gilbert de Clare’s death. With dark hair and eyes and olive skin, Henri looked Greek to Christopher, but apparently he was a younger son of a French lord, having joined the Templars because he would inherit no lands of his own.
Henri gave no indication that he’d seen Thomas’s glance, but he leaned into the man next to him and said a few words, before standing and walking away from the high table. He didn’t look in Thomas’s direction, but once Henri had passed through the main doors of the hall, Thomas motioned with his head for Christopher and Matha to come with him.
They left the hall, still hopefully with nobody remarking them, and found Henri in the outer courtyard, in the shadows of the northern curtain wall.
“In the name of Saint Gerard, what are you doing here?” were his first words to Christopher.
Thomas related what they’d told him, and Henri subsided. “It’s still dangerous for you to be here. Christopher, at least, is a known companion to King David, and just because you don’t recognize anyone doesn’t mean someone doesn’t recognize you.”
“That’s what I said,” Thomas said smugly.
“I felt it was worth the risk. We need to know what the plan is.”
“It appears to be evolving.” Henri gestured towards the main gatehouse. “Let’s find a better place to talk.”
They followed him, and he was of a high enough standing that the guard bowed to him fully as they left the castle.
“Did King Philip actually send you?” Christopher hastened to come abreast so they could keep talking.
“My master spoke with him. So much of what has transpired in the last month has caught everyone by surprise.” He turned his gaze on Christopher. “Your king most of all.”
“He needs better spies, that’s for certain,” Christopher said.
“Intrigue does not come naturally to him, and what worked for him in the early years of his reign is no longer sufficient.” Henri’s chin wrinkled as he thought. “Perhaps he would be willing to listen to some suggestions.”
“After all this, I’m sure he would.” Christopher said.
“Your French has improved since last we spoke.”
Christopher laughed. “Given that it was nonexistent before, that bar is pretty low.”
Henri laughed too, nice and casual, and then they turned onto the main village street. Like the great hall, it was full of people, though most were of a lower class. Henri stopped at some tables set up in front of a house. The owner had created a makeshift tavern, in the same way that the stalls on the street were newly erected. Food vendors were doing a brisk business, as were the stalls selling boots, clothing, sewing supplies, and other household items. Because of the army’s arrival, a market had grown up in the town.
“We can talk here.” Henri put up four fingers to the bartender, who came around his table with four crude clay cups, not even fired. They might have been made that day.
“War is a boon for merchants as well as kings,” Henri said before taking his first drink.
Christopher drank too, pleased to find he was drinking cider, not beer. And as he set down the cup, he noticed a small dragon carved into the side, the same dragon as on David’s crest. He traced it with one finger thoughtfully before being distracted by Henri, who commented, “I hate English beer. Cider is better.”
Thomas clearly didn’t agree, since he was sipping his drink with a curled lip. “So, what’s David’s plan?”
“I’m more interested in Balliol’s at the moment,” Christopher said, not quite ready to tell his new companions that David was in Avalon. “I get that they did all this thinking David would be dead. What I don’t see is how they think they can win with him alive.”
Henri grunted. “They think they have good numbers with the addition of Hakkon’s army.”
“They’ve come really far south.” Matha was drinking the cider with enthusiasm. He had never taken to English beer either, though Christopher thought his dislike was more a matter of principle. “Balliol has committed everything to this fight. What’s happening back in Scotland that made him think this was a good idea?”
“Balliol would take the rule of England over Scotland,” Henri said. “He descends from King Henry I of England, and with the throne empty, he would have more right to it than most, including his allies in this war. Hakkon wants Scotland and thinks he deserves it for coming to fight.”
“That’s what Balliol has promised him?” Christopher was shocked. “Which Scottish barons support that?”
“Those who hate the Bruces. But remember, when all this started, Red Comyn was going to win Ireland, in part by the murder of not only David but also James Stewart and the Bruce heir. I understand that Robert Bruce survived an attempt on his life around the same time.”
“Robert Bruce being Robbie’s grandfather?”
Henri nodded. According to Bronwen’s shorthand, Robbie was Baby Bruce, his father had been Daddy Bruce, and his grandfather was Grampa Bruce. Christopher and Matha looked at each other. They’d not heard anything about that, and they were certain David did not know of it.
Christopher drew in a breath. “The Stewarts, Bruces, and their allies are marching south even now, and I sent riders to them today too.”
“I want to know what the plan is now,” Matha said. “David is alive. Robert Bruce is alive, and five thousand men are on the verge of ravaging England.”
“Balliol doesn’t yet know David is alive,” Henri said, “and I am not going to be the one to tell him.”
“So do we let this happen?” They’d fought the battle at Tara because David had deemed it necessary. They’d won, but Christopher could do without more killing.
“Do we have a choice?” Henri said. “Balliol isn’t going to back down, and King David can’t.”
“If it comes to open battle, both sides are going to take huge losses,” Matha said matter-of-factly, “though David cannot help but win. Balliol doesn’t have archers.” After Tara, it was a huge sin, even to an Irishman.
“We could kill Balliol,” Thomas said in a low voice.
“A king does not kill a king,” Christopher said, also in an undertone, knowing David believed it.
Henri pressed his lips together. “I honor that sensibility, but it is one that Balliol clearly does not share.”