Outpost in Time Page 4

  They were soon out of bowshot and riding back through the town, though until they were through the east gate again, James feared at any moment to be stopped. They were not, however, and Robbie held his tongue until they’d ridden some distance from the gate. “Why did you do that? I thought you were going to discover the truth of why he was here? We need to know what he is planning! We would have been far better off speaking to townspeople in a tavern.”

  James laughed—at and to himself. “I acted on impulse, and I am a fool.”

  That shut Robbie up for a heartbeat, but then he canted his head and studied his mentor. “For once, you did what I might have done. And I would have been just as foolish. I’m sorry if my enthusiasm pushed you into it.”

  “Thank you, Robbie.” James didn’t know whether to laugh again or curse. “Still, all is not lost. Now he knows we’re watching him. My thought, if I had taken the time to think it through, is that Comyn will be more hesitant about implementing whatever it is he’s planned and will genuinely sail south as he told us he would. Whatever he’s here to speak to Tuyt about—or action he intends to take with him—could be deferred.”

  Robbie chewed on his lower lip. “I wish we had some idea of what that was. He could be marching on Trim tomorrow.”

  “He could,” James agreed. “Perhaps we should find shelter nearby for the night and see what he does.”

  “Or we could hasten back to Trim to tell King David that Comyn is here.”

  James grunted his assent, pleased that Robbie was sounding remarkably like James himself. Maybe the boy really would eventually learn temperance.

  “Or is it something else?” Robbie said. “Is he here to distract King David from some venture in Scotland that Balliol has planned?”

  James shook his head. They were nearing the spot where they’d left Christopher. “We have just invented a war out of whole cloth on no evidence but a dozen ships.”

  Robbie glowered. “Comyn is up to something. Of that I have no doubt.”

  They reached the little glade, but instead of reuniting with the others, saw only William, who was loping from one side of the clearing to the other, calling Christopher’s name. Then Huw dashed headlong into view from the opposite direction, shaking his head and cursing.

  William bent back his head and shouted at the sky, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  Both turned towards James and Robbie as they reined in.

  “Where’s Christopher?” James said.

  “We can’t find him,” Huw said.

  James twisted in the saddle. “This is the right place. Perhaps he moved the horses for some reason?”

  “He moved them all right—” Huw pointed to the ground where a dozen hoof prints and boot prints were clearly visible in the soft earth, “—but maybe not of his own accord. I fear someone took him—and the horses.”

  The complexities of the politics of Ireland were immediately pushed to the back of James’s mind. Christopher was King David’s cousin and in James’s charge—and yet, absurdly and unexpectedly, James had lost him. He cursed under his breath at his folly for leaving him alone, even knowing how inexperienced he was. Christopher’s inexperience was, in fact, why James had left him behind.

  “He has to be close by.” Robbie was still disbelieving.

  Huw shook his head. “If he is, we don’t know where.”

  “Blame can wait,” James said. “Christopher is missing. That is all that matters now. Can you track the prints?”

  Huw jerked his chin in a nod. “I should be able to.”

  “Then let’s get going,” James said. “We’re nearly out of daylight, and I would prefer my next audience with King David to be about the arrival of Red Comyn, not to inform him that I’ve misplaced his cousin.”

  Chapter Four

  Drogheda

  Red

  As he watched Robbie and James ride out of sight, Red took the name of the Lord in vain.

  “We could go after them. Arrest them,” John de Tuyt said, ignoring Red’s blasphemy.

  “To what end? It would give the plan away too soon. Feypo wouldn’t thank us for that.” Red cursed again. “But it’s damn bad luck that Stewart knows I’m here.”

  Tuyt put a hand on Red’s shoulder. “We have a good plan, and it’s going to work.”

  “So Feypo says,” Red said sourly.

  “You are having second thoughts?”

  Red scoffed. “Of course not.”

  What he didn’t say was that up until he’d seen Stewart and the Bruce heir right in front of him, he’d been having a series of second, third, and fourth thoughts. Now that Red was actually here in Ireland, it seemed impossible that Feypo’s plan was going to work. It had too many moving parts and relied too much on everything going perfectly—and their opponents being far less clever than Red knew James Stewart to be. In his experience, barons of whatever stripe did not by nature cooperate well. That they had held the conspiracy together for this long was something of a miracle.

  And yet, the sight of Robbie Bruce still had the power to raise Red’s hackles, and he put aside his doubts. If James Stewart and Robbie were here, it was at David’s behest. Swinging around, Red refrained from spitting on the ground in his distaste of that alliance. He knew full well that he’d been lucky to escape the kind of treatment David had meted out to Aymer de Valence two Christmases ago. Red had been forgiven. He’d even intended to adhere to his agreement.

  The High Kingship of Ireland, however, was too great a prize to resist, especially once John Balliol, the King of Scotland and Red’s uncle, urged him to consider it. While it was possible that John hoped to distract Red from his own claim to the throne of Scotland, that didn’t discount the value of what Feypo had offered Red. Ireland was a richer land than Scotland, which explained why the English had hung on to it so tenaciously. Red’s advancement in Ireland also could put Scotland in a more powerful position vis a vis England. David was far too strong a king for Scotland ever to be comfortable with him as a neighbor.

  Red nodded at Tuyt. “We must prepare. And my men must eat and sleep. We had a rough crossing.”

  “We have been stockpiling food for just this occasion. Of course, soon we will have all the resources we need.”

  Again, Red didn’t scoff openly, but inside, he found himself thinking, we’ll see about that. Tuyt was a typical arrogant Anglo-Irish-Norman, sure of his pedigree and happy to stand on the shoulders of those who came before him, while still claiming that his achievements were entirely his own doing. Red didn’t like it. But he set it aside. Instead, he waved a hand and got his captain working to unload the ships at the dock and transfer the supplies onto the river boats that would take his army upriver to Trim. It was a relief to stand on solid ground after the journey from Scotland, and he happily walked the short distance to Drogheda Castle at Tuyt’s side.

  Drogheda’s original wooden fortress, located on a motte, had been replaced by a new stone keep, as had the castle walls. And, because the town’s walls conjoined the castle’s, craft halls were located in the town itself rather than inside the bailey. The latter, though large, contained only the stables and barracks.

  Red followed Tuyt into the hall, where a meal had been prepared for him and his captains. The bulk of his men would spend the night outside the castle, ready to march at a moment’s notice if required. He almost considered doing as he’d told Stewart he would—getting back into his boats and sailing along the coast for Wexford. There, he could join up with Aymer, who, while not exactly trustworthy in the general sense, could be trusted not to betray Red. But the thought that Stewart was on his way to David even now to tell him that Red was here had the power to make his stomach burn.

  Tuyt handed him a glass of mulled wine, and Red took a sip, telling himself to remain calm. James Stewart knew nothing, David was completely occupied with Parliament, and by the time he heard of Comyn’s arrival and decided to do something about it, it would be too late.

  Red raised his cup, co
nvinced again that this time, he’d chosen the right allies and the right side.

  “To a new Ireland!” Tuyt said.

  They both drank.

  Chapter Five

  Beyond the Pale

  Christopher

  Christopher woke with his head hanging down the side of a horse. His wrists and ankles were tied, his limbs felt numb, and every step the horse took felt like someone was beating him in the stomach and ribs. He was pretty sure he’d been bashed on the head by the medieval version of a baseball bat.

  Panic rose in his throat, but something told him not to show it. Instead, he took in a wavering breath. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, but it was long enough for the rain to have stopped, and he seemed to be okay, aside from what felt like a massive lump on the back of his head. Hopefully, being upside down was most of the reason that his head hurt so much, since all the blood had rushed to it. He carefully twisted his body, using only his stomach muscles (hooray for the zillion sit-ups he’d done this year!) so that he arched upwards and could see over the top of the horse next to him. His horse was one of at least ten, each ridden by a soldier.

  It was only then, at Christopher’s movement, that the man closest to him shouted a warning. Christopher couldn’t understand anything he said, which meant that he was probably speaking Gaelic. Practically everybody Christopher had encountered in the Middle Ages could speak at least two languages, and often three or four. In Ireland, it was Gaelic, English, and French. Christopher’s French wasn’t terrible these days. He couldn’t read it at all, but he could get by, at least when his English friends were speaking it. Gaelic-accented French and English were harder for him to understand, and it was almost refreshing to hear straight Gaelic, because he didn’t have to pretend that he had the least clue what anyone was talking about.

  At the warning, the leading riders looked back and then pulled up. The reins of Christopher’s horse were attached to the saddle horn of the horse in front of him, which had allowed the whole company to ride instead of walk. As soon as the horse in front stopped, Christopher’s horse stopped too.

  Now that he was conscious, there was no way he was going to ride like this anymore. Before any of his captors could dismount and stop him, Christopher wriggled his body backwards and slid off the side of the horse. His feet hit the ground, but because they were tied together, he instantly overbalanced. He would have fallen if a man behind him hadn’t been right there to catch him.

  This man spoke in Gaelic, but this time, instead of a warning, his tone held laughter. He said something to the others, and they laughed too. Christopher hated being the subject of anyone’s jokes, but even though they were speaking Gaelic, he thought that their tone wasn’t so much mocking as genuinely amused.

  Then the man who’d caught him pulled a knife from his waist. Christopher’s heart leapt into his throat, but the man laughed again, bent down, and sliced the bonds that bound Christopher’s ankles.

  Christopher’s next impulse was to run, but a second later, another man coming up behind him placed a heavy hand on Christopher’s shoulder and spoke in accented English. “If you swear not to try to escape, we will let you ride. If you run, we will catch you and tie you tighter.” He canted his head. “Or kill you.”

  Christopher nodded. He might not know much about much, but that sounded like a deal to him—and the fact that he’d been offered it implied (Christopher thought) a kind of respect. Before, when he’d been upside down, he’d been no better than a piece of meat. Now they were treating him like a man. He was their captive, but getting himself off the horse had earned him a measure of respect. It had been fear and instinct that had made him do it, and it was startling to discover that he’d done something right. For once.

  Another man held the horse’s bridle while the man who’d spoken English steadied Christopher so he could mount. Because his hands were tied in front of him (rather than behind), he just managed it, though his captors still left his horse’s reins attached to the horse in front. They’d taken his sword too, so he had little chance of fighting his way out, but his situation was way better than before. Even though it was night, now that he was in the saddle instead of upside down over it, he could see something of his surroundings.

  He was on a road—at home it would have been a wide trail, but here people would call it a road—made of dirt, of course, and wending its way through pasturelands and stands of trees. Stone walls lined the road on either side. Huge puddles were everywhere, which the riders seemed mostly to be ignoring, preferring to trot right through them rather than go around, which would have meant jostling other riders or waiting for others to go first and riding single file.

  Even though he’d already interacted in some way with half of the men who’d captured him, Christopher was struggling to tell them apart. They all had beards, wore encompassing cloaks and hats pulled down low over their eyes to keep out the weather, and had swords or axes belted at their waists. From the way they spoke, along with the breeches, long belted tunic, and vest that every man wore under his cloak, Christopher was pretty sure that they were all native Irish.

  That puzzled him, since it made no sense that an Irish band had abducted him. He had no value on his own whatsoever, and if they’d kidnapped him in order to get to David, which had to be the reason they’d taken him, Christopher couldn’t think what they wanted. Didn’t they know that if David was on any side in this whole mess it was theirs? On top of which, David wasn’t going to change his policies to save Christopher no matter how much he loved him. Because politics were so personal here, caving to threats or demands would make David look weak. And that would open the floodgates to more people doing more terrible things.

  Which meant, all in all, that even if Christopher didn’t have a chance to escape right now, he needed to get away as soon as possible. No way was he going to put David in such an awful position simply because Christopher had been stupid enough to get himself captured.

  Then Christopher bit his lip as more implications of his captivity occurred to him: if the men who’d abducted him knew who he was, had they deliberately targeted him? Had they followed him from Trim, or had they simply come upon him in the course of doing something else and taken advantage of the opportunity presented to them? The second possibility seemed unlikely, but so did the idea of James Stewart not noticing that they were being followed.

  Or … almost worse, the company had learned of James’s plans to take Christopher to Drogheda and had lain in wait for their opportunity to abduct him. They must have laughed and laughed when James had obliged them by leaving Christopher alone. Christopher felt sick at the thought—and he’d been feeling bad enough already. His head hurt, and he was dizzy.

  Up until this point, he’d been trying to tell himself that he really was okay, but now that he was upright, he was pretty sure that the man who’d hit him had given him a concussion. He’d never had one before, but one of his friends had, and he’d had to stop playing soccer for the rest of the season. Now wasn’t the time to need to lie down. Christopher blinked his eyes to clear them, and he hoped that his blurred vision was due to drips from his wet hair rather than because of the giant lump at the back of his head.

  As it turned out, by the time he’d regained consciousness, they hadn’t been very far from their destination, which appeared to be a wooden fort on a rise overlooking waterlogged pasturelands and fields—or that’s what Christopher thought he was seeing by the light of the men’s torches. That they hadn’t had far to go was probably why his captors had gone so easy on him. But at this point, given how crappy he was feeling, Christopher didn’t particularly care about why. It was way better to ride through the gate upright than upside down.

  When they came to a stop in the fort’s courtyard, there was enough light from the torches the men carried to see something of their surroundings. Ahead of him lay a two-story building that at first he thought was a barn and then realized was the great hall. A bunch of smaller buildings, inclu
ding a stable, lined the wooden fence surrounding the property (belatedly, he remembered that the proper word for this was palisade). It had rained on and off all day, so the ground was churned up and mucky, and when anyone stepped off the stone path that led between the front door of the house and the gatehouse, they stood three inches deep in mud.

  As everyone dismounted, rather than ask for help, Christopher leaned back in the saddle, swung his leg over the horse’s head, and dropped to the ground, hands still tied in front of him. He’d practiced the move a thousand times because he thought it was cool. He had no idea that he would ever need to use it. Unfortunately, dropping off the horse like that jarred him enough to hurt his head again, even with the squishy mud to cushion his landing.

  Christopher’s suave dismount put him a few feet from the leader of his captors, who’d been talking to one of the men who’d come out of the hall to greet the company. A second later, the English-speaking man pushed at Christopher from behind, and Christopher walked forward towards the house. It still looked an awful lot like a barn, and for the Middle Ages, it was huge. Christopher hadn’t yet spent much time outside of English-controlled lands, so he hadn’t seen any Irish who weren’t ruled by Englishmen. But whoever lived here seemed to be doing just fine for himself.

  A moment later, Christopher found himself pushed through the doorway into a large hall, nearly as long as the hall he’d taken Gwenllian to at Bryn Mawr College before he’d come to the Middle Ages. The ceiling was thirty feet high at least, and an eight-foot-wide loft, edged by a railing, went all the way around the interior walls, giving the hall a rudimentary second floor. Stairs on both the right and left led up to the loft, and a big fire was burning in the center of the room, with the smoke heading for a hole in the ceiling.