Outpost in Time Read online

  A novel from the After Cilmeri series

  Outpost in Time

  by

  Sarah Woodbury

  Copyright © 2016 by Sarah Woodbury

  Outpost in Time

  March 1294. Ireland is at a crossroads. The different factions—Irish, Danish, and English—are tearing the country apart with their constant warfare. Hoping to hammer out a treaty, David calls the Irish Parliament into session. Unfortunately, some lords are far more interested in fighting than talking, and it isn’t long before the conference goes awry. With the future of Ireland at stake, David finds himself caught up in a far-reaching conspiracy that puts not only his life on the line, but his family’s as well.

  Outpost in Time is the eleventh novel in the After Cilmeri series.

  www.sarahwoodbury.com

  To Dan, Taran, and Melissa

  For sharing the journey

  Books in the After Cilmeri Series:

  Daughter of Time (prequel)

  Footsteps in Time (Book One)

  Winds of Time

  Prince of Time (Book Two)

  Crossroads in Time (Book Three)

  Children of Time (Book Four)

  Exiles in Time

  Castaways in Time

  Ashes of Time

  Warden of Time

  Guardians of Time

  Masters of Time

  Outpost in Time

  The Gareth and Gwen Medieval Mysteries:

  The Bard’s Daughter (prequel)

  The Good Knight

  The Uninvited Guest

  The Fourth Horseman

  The Fallen Princess

  The Unlikely Spy

  The Lost Brother

  The Renegade Merchant

  The Unexpected Ally

  The Last Pendragon Saga:

  The Last Pendragon

  The Pendragon’s Blade

  Song of the Pendragon

  The Pendragon’s Quest

  The Pendragon’s Champions

  Rise of the Pendragon

  The Pendragon’s Challenge

  The Lion of Wales series:

  Cold My Heart

  The Oaken Door

  Of Men and Dragons

  A Long Cloud

  Frost Against the Hilt

  The Paradisi Chronicles:

  Erase Me Not

  www.sarahwoodbury.com

  Cast of Characters

  David (Dafydd)—Time-traveler, King of England

  Llywelyn—David’s father, King of Wales

  Meg—Time-traveler, David’s mother

  Christopher Shepherd – Time-traveler, David’s cousin

  Callum—Time-traveler, Earl of Shrewsbury

  Huw ap Aeddan —David’s companion

  Geoffrey de Geneville—Anglo-Irish lord (Trim Castle)

  Maud de Geneville—Anglo-Irish lady (Trim Castle)

  Red Comyn—Scottish lord

  Thomas de Clare—Anglo-Irish lord (Lord of Thomond)

  Walter Cusack—Anglo-Irish lord (Kells, Killeen, Dunsany Castle)

  Richard de Feypo—Anglo-Irish lord (Skryne Castle)

  John de Tuyt—Anglo-Irish lord (Castellan of Drogheda Castle)

  Aymer de Valence—son of William de Valence

  James Stewart—Steward of Scotland

  William de Bohun—Anglo-Norman lord

  Margery de Bohun—William’s aunt (Castle Roche)

  Robbie Bruce—Scottish lord

  Magnus Godfridson—Mayor of Oxmantown

  Niall MacMurrough—Irish lord

  Hugh O’Connor—Irish lord (Roscommon Castle)

  Gilla O’Reilly—Irish lord (Cloughoughter Castle, Drumconrath)

  Matha O’Reilly—Gilla’s son

  Aine O’Reilly—Gilla’s daughter

  Prologue

  Kells, Ireland

  January 1294

  Walter

  “More wine?” Richard de Feypo gestured with the carafe in his hand.

  “Wine will not aid this plan, Richard,” Walter Cusack said. “We need level heads and clear eyes going forward.”

  “It’s going to work.” Already the most powerful of Geoffrey de Geneville’s vassals, Richard was grasping and ambitious, sometimes uncomfortably so. He was also short of stature, with coal black hair and a beaked nose—not the usual physique of a knight. But the size of his brain more than made up for his physical deficiencies, which was why Walter had thrown in with him in the first place.

  “Geneville—”

  “—is an old man,” Richard said. “His mind isn’t what it once was. Certainly his body has failed him, and he is distracted by his responsibilities in England. Did you know that he hasn’t come to Skryne Castle in five months? He has no idea what I do.”

  “He has spies.” Thomas de Clare, brother to the recently deceased Gilbert, ran his hands through his hair, which was enviably thick and devoid of gray for a man of middle age. He wore it long too, which Walter thought was pure hubris. Walter himself was balding, and while his wife told him that it made him more handsome than ever, he hated every hair he found in his comb most mornings.

  “I have turned his spies.” Richard had an answer for everything, which was all to the good as far as Walter was concerned. That’s why he was questioning him. “I gave you the name of the stable boy he’d bought at Killeen. Did you take care of him?”

  “He is dead.” Walter’s own ambition and his desire to keep both his lands and his head had led him down this path. He would do what was necessary, even if it was unsavory.

  “How?” Thomas said sharply. “Nothing that might arouse suspicion, I hope.”

  “Drowned in the Boyne. It just so happened that he couldn’t swim.”

  Richard nodded. “Then we can move forward.”

  “What about Valence and Comyn?” Thomas said. “Can you control them?”

  Richard was more than confident. “Valence is driven by rage. He can see nothing but King David’s corpse on the ground and his head on a pike. You don’t have to worry about Aymer.”

  Walter was pleased to agree with Feypo’s assessment. “For Comyn’s part, he is motivated by greed. He truly believes we will give him the High Kingship.”

  Thomas scoffed. “He has to commit far more than five hundred men to our cause if he expects the crown.”

  “He says he will bring more men if this initial attack goes well,” Richard said. “The throne of Scotland will stand with us.”

  “If so, we will owe Balliol,” Thomas said. “You could lose control of this very quickly.”

  “You will have Thomond so why do you care?” Richard said.

  Thomas frowned. “I will care because there are miles of Irish-held territory between Thomond and Dublin. I want to know that you and our other allies will hold those lands, and that you won’t balk at a crucial moment—like when you have to kill David.”

  “The men assigned to him will do their duty,” Richard said. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  Thomas’s voice rose, incredulous. “Because he is the return of the great High King Murtagh Mac Ecra come to save the Irish from their oppressors and lead them to a land of milk and honey!”

  “That would be King Arthur to you, Richard.” Walter rapped his fingers on the table to emphasize his agreement with Thomas. “It’s the same tale by a different name, one I learned on my nanny’s knee, even if you didn’t, and all the peasants believe it. Mark my words, when it comes to it, nobody will want to be responsible for his death.”

  “My men will be well paid for what they do.” Richard moved his hand dismissively. “I anticipate no problems.”

  Though not completely convinced, Walter grunted his acceptance. David’s death was not the minor doing Richard pretended, but it was a small piece of the
overall plan, so he was willing to put it aside for now. If all else failed, Walter himself would take care of David. Or Aymer would.

  “What of these Irish allies?” Thomas asked. “Surely when it comes to it you don’t really intend to include them in the governance of Ireland.”

  “Of course not. They will fight for us, and then we will isolate them and fall on them one by one.” Richard looked from Walter to Thomas and back again. “Is two months enough time for you to prepare?”

  “More than enough. I’m already having to hold O’Rourke back. I told you we shouldn’t include him in any aspect of the plan until the last moment.” Thomas drained his drink and stood. “For that reason alone, I would argue against any delay. Even more, Geneville’s health fails daily. With no male heir, if he dies before Parliament convenes, David might claim his lands and give them to the Irish before we even know he’s done it. We could be out on our ears by spring.”

  They all knew David would use any excuse to give away their domains. That was why they were moving at all. The idea that the Lord of Ireland would return their hard-fought lands to the native Irish was an anathema—a betrayal of all that he stood for and they’d fought for. But King David was unlike any king of England who’d gone before him. Which was why they had to act.

  “We can’t move sooner. We have to wait until David arrives in Ireland.” Richard put one hand on Thomas’s shoulder and the other on Walter’s. “Now, if there are no more questions, are we agreed? We will see this through?”

  The other men nodded their assent. But then Thomas said, “And the king’s cousin—this knave who killed my brother and is now hailed as the Hero of Westminster? He truly will come to Ireland as well?”

  “I am assured that he will, and he’s all yours, Thomas. We win the day, and then you can avenge your brother’s death.”

  Chapter One

  Beyond the Pale, Ireland

  12 March 1294

  Christopher

  From Christopher’s right, Huw spoke in lilting English. “Who are they?”

  Christopher didn’t actually say how the hell should I know? But his disbelief at being asked that question must have showed on his face, because Huw clapped him on the shoulder and turned to his other side where Robbie Bruce was peering through a pair of medieval binoculars, which (unbelievably) worked quite well. Christopher had already looked through them, so he knew what Robbie was seeing: a dozen ships were sailing up the Boyne River to the town of Drogheda. Given their size, each held at least fifty men and horses. It was a small army. Even Christopher wasn’t naïve enough to think that they were here for their health.

  “My God,” Robbie said. “Those ships fly Red Comyn’s banner!”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” William de Bohun, the last of Christopher’s companions, grabbed the binoculars and yanked them away from Robbie, who swatted at him for doing it but let them go. As far as Christopher could tell, he himself hadn’t been good for much during the nine months that he’d lived in the Middle Ages except for teaching his friends bits of American English. William loved the word kidding and applied it to almost any situation. Otherwise, he was the most difficult of Christopher’s friends to get to know, since most of the time it was impossible to decipher what—if anything—he was hiding beneath his quick banter and pride.

  Eighteen seconds into his sojourn in the Middle Ages, Christopher had figured out that he could say goodbye to ever being comfortable again. It wasn’t just that the beds were harder here than at home, or that he missed his computer chair, or that he’d ended nearly every day for the last nine months so exhausted he could barely lift his arms. Physical discomfort was the least of his concerns. It was the way everything he had ever thought he knew was not only wrong but likely to get him killed.

  He hadn’t actually believed that lightsaber fighting with his friends bore much resemblance to sword fighting in the courtyard of a real castle. He’d known before his twelve intensive weeks with Bevyn, David’s first instructor, that all that fancy footwork in The Princess Bride was essentially useless. But knowing theoretically that one hundred percent of the point of fighting was to get the enemy on his back and drive a sword through his midsection, and understanding that fact, were two entirely different things. Bevyn hadn’t much cared what Christopher had to do to win either—as long as he won.

  It was almost worse that Christopher had killed Gilbert de Clare with his car that very first day—that very first second—of his arrival in the Middle Ages. Because of it, everyone accorded Christopher a certain amount of respect he didn’t deserve. Unlike the guys he’d started hanging with here, each of whom had killed at least one man, Christopher had never killed anyone on purpose.

  But as he crouched with his three friends behind the stone wall that made up the border of some poor farmer’s field, he had a sinking feeling—to go along with the way his boots had sunk into the mud caused by the endless rain—that he could soon find himself equal to his friends. In fact, the opportunity to do so might be staring him in the face right now, whether or not Christopher was ready for it.

  As Christopher gazed through the late afternoon rain to the Boyne River, his stomach curdled at the implications of Red’s arrival, and his hand reflexively clutched the St. Christopher’s medal around his neck. The medal had been hanging from the rearview mirror of his car when he’d driven into the Middle Ages. Since St. Christopher was not only Christopher’s namesake but also the patron saint of travelers, storms, bachelors, and (bizarrely) toothache, he figured wearing it meant he was covering most of his bases. He hadn’t even been Catholic back at home, but here, it was the only Christian Church available. Everybody was Catholic and wore one talisman or another all the time.

  “Gentlemen, we should move.” James Stewart tapped Christopher’s shoulder. He spoke with a Scottish accent that had taken Christopher’s ear ages to decipher, but once he had, he found himself mimicking it. James Stewart was the kind of knight that Christopher aspired to become, right down to his loose-hipped, long-legged stride. He was muscled but thin, smart, good-looking, and rich. He was also soft-spoken, but Christopher had noticed right off that when he did speak, people listened. So, Christopher backed away as James wanted, while at the same time keeping his head below the level of the wall.

  James was here because David had asked him to keep an eye on Christopher, essentially as a chaperone, which effectively meant that he was William’s and Robbie’s chaperone too. When he’d first heard about it, Christopher had wanted Rupert, his time-traveling journalist friend, to come along too, but he was in Dublin setting up Ireland’s first radio station—and he could barely ride a horse. Rupert had helped Christopher survive some of the harder moments of the last nine months, as one of the few people who understood what it was like to be here accidently. Christopher missed Rupert’s humor and the way he had a sarcastic comment for every occasion.

  David was in Ireland too, but as the King of England and Lord of Ireland, he was too busy playing politics to run around with Christopher. He’d spent the last three weeks talking with Ireland’s barons, trying to find a way to get them to stop fighting each other all the time. So far, however, nothing he or anyone else said seemed to be working. Christopher figured that James had agreed to keep an eye on him because he was sick of all the talking and had jumped at the chance of gallivanting around Ireland for a few days.

  William was the last to leave the wall, but after another long look through the binoculars, he hustled after the rest. “What does Red Comyn want? Why has he brought an army to Drogheda?”

  James answered without looking back. “I have no idea.” Through some sixth sense, which was one of the things Christopher hoped one day to have for himself, James found a path that would bring them closer to the town walls, while at the same time keeping them somewhat hidden from any watchers who might be braving the rain.

  None of them had to ask who Red Comyn was, not even Christopher. Before taking him to Ireland in the company of Wil
liam and Robbie, David had given Christopher a longwinded lecture about noble families and his companions’ place in them. Not only were William and Robbie cousins, both descended from William Marshal, the great knight (and Earl of Pembroke AND King of Leinster), but Red Comyn, Robbie’s sworn enemy, was too. William was even a true heir to the throne of Scotland. William teased Robbie endlessly about that fact, though he hadn’t put in his claim when it mattered.

  David had explained to Christopher at great length how, in the Avalon timeline, Robbie had murdered Red in a Scottish church about ten years from now. And then David had immediately made Christopher swear not to tell Robbie about it. Christopher had to admit that sometimes his cousin’s lectures were impossibly tedious, but they had a way of sticking in your brain. For example, he now knew that Robbie’s killing of Red had prompted Red’s family to engineer the capture and eight-year imprisonment of Robbie’s future wife, Elizabeth de Burgh. He even could tell you that Elizabeth, who was only ten years old today, happened also to be the daughter of the Earl of Ulster and the niece of James Stewart’s Irish wife, Gilles. Christopher took a moment to rub his head. How did David live with all of that swimming around inside his brain, knowing what his friends’ future could hold?

  The five companions reached the spot where they’d left their horses cropping the grass amidst a stand of trees that screened them from the battlements of Drogheda’s town walls. Christopher was a far less experienced horseman than the others, but of all the skills that he’d had to learn in the last nine months, riding was the one he’d taken to most easily. He had no trouble keeping up with his friends on horseback. In fact, he was already a better rider than Huw, who hadn’t been born to it either, despite being medieval. Admittedly, Huw wasn’t part of the gang because he was a great swordsman or rider. He was here for the same reason James was: to keep an eye on Christopher.