Guardians of Time (12 page)

“Fortunately, we have at least a day until
David finds out about it, and we’ll do what we can before he gets
back to discover who did this and why. And get Lord Stewart back.”
Peter knelt in the mud of the road by Molier’s head, his hands on
his shoulders. “Can you help me shift him?”

“He’s really heavy.” Bridget grasped Molier
around the torso, struggling to help Peter turn the emissary onto
his back. Then she frowned. “Look at this!” She lifted up several
layers of the man’s clothing to reveal a thin mail vest hidden
underneath his linen shirt, adding many pounds to his already
significant girth.

In so doing, Bridget also found the wound
that was the source of all the blood: the emissary had been stabbed
by a thin blade that had cut through the links of his mail along
the base of his left rib cage, thus confirming Peter’s opinion that
the emissary had been the target of the attack. But between the
mail, the many layers of fabric, and Molier’s girth, the knife had
missed his heart. It had gone in but had turned aside at the ribs.
Still, Molier had bled copiously.

Then Peter frowned. The blood on his hands
was fresh, and the wound was still seeping. That made no sense at
all. Dead men didn’t bleed.

“You said,
we
,” Bridget said. “You
said
we
have at least a day.”

“What?” He glanced up at her, confused for a
moment about the topic of conversation. Then he shook himself. “I
meant
we
. Like I said before, I assumed any attempt on my
part to get you to return to your shop would be wasted, so I
thought I’d save my breath.”

Without waiting for an answer from Bridget,
he returned his attention to the emissary’s body and almost fell
backwards in surprise as the man expelled a puff of air. Peter
pressed with two fingers into the man’s thick neck. He thought he
caught a pulse but was afraid it was the beat from his own
forefinger, so he placed his ear to the man’s chest. The heartbeat
came faint but steady, and Molier’s chest rose and fell a few
millimeters as he breathed.

Peter sat back on his heels. “He’s
alive.”

Bridget didn’t waste words in shock or
surprise, which was one of the things Peter liked about her.
Instead, she straightened and waved her arms to get the attention
of Hywel, who’d been waiting for them when they’d arrived, and
Justin, David’s captain, who’d ridden with them to the ambush site
to provide support. Rather than feeling resentful not being
included on David’s trip to Avalon, Justin seemed to be putting an
extra strut in his walk at the trust his king had placed in him and
David’s wisdom in leaving him behind.

“How could someone—us included—not have
noticed that he was alive earlier?” Bridget said.

“Nobody was able to feel his pulse on
account of all the fat,” Peter said.

Hywel and Justin hurried over. “What is it?”
Hywel said.

“This man’s alive,” Peter said. “We need a
stretcher.”

While Hywel hared off to arrange for the
emissary’s transport, Justin stared at the body. “That’s good
news.” He paused. “Isn’t it?”

“I’d say so,” Peter said. “I highly doubt
King David would have preferred him dead.”

“Now we just have to keep him alive,”
Bridget said.

Hywel gave a piercing whistle to gather his
men, who’d been posted on the perimeter of the ambush site, and two
men-at-arms stripped a side board off the carriage. The board only
had to carry the emissary to one of the carts, which they’d brought
for the purpose of transporting the dead to the village of
Llangollen.

“You’d better bring one of the carts
closer,” Bridget said to Hywel. “We’re going to need more than two
men to lift him into the bed, and they aren’t going to want to have
to carry him more than a few steps.”

“I hope the horse has the strength to pull
him,” Justin said, a dubious expression on his face.

“What about the dead?” Hywel said.

“The dead can wait,” Peter said. “Take the
emissary to the village and then return for the rest.” Molier
wouldn’t have to be driven all the way up to the castle. He could
stay at the hospital Math had built in Llangollen, which meant he’d
reach help all the more quickly.

Bridget felt at the back of the emissary’s
head. “You know, I don’t think he’s really that injured. He might
be unconscious more from being hit on the head than from the loss
of blood.”

“The healers will straighten him out,” Hywel
said, with all the confidence of a man whose home was the medical
center of the known world.

“The cold air may have saved his life,”
Peter said to Bridget. “It slowed the bleeding, and then his extra
layers of fat and clothing protected him from freezing to
death.”

He and Bridget stepped back to allow Hywel
and his men to load Molier into the cart. As it turned out, it took
five men to lift him. Once mounted, Justin hesitated, his horse’s
bridle in his hand. “Sir—”

Peter made a dismissive motion with his
hand. “You and your men should provide an escort just to make sure
Molier gets there in one piece. Even now, someone could be
watching, waiting for a chance to finish the job.”

“Someone should stay behind with you,”
Justin said. “You need an escort too.”

Peter frowned, trying to come up with a
reasonable explanation that would appeal to Justin’s medieval mind
for why everyone should leave him and Bridget alone. The truth was,
Peter didn’t want Justin looking over his shoulder, and he’d meant
what he’d said to Bridget: he wanted a partner, like Darren would
have been, not just a companion to ride beside him—to protect him
or whatever Justin thought he needed.

Justin was a very capable commander—even a
knowledgeable tactician—but he wasn’t an investigator. Bridget
didn’t have the experience in war that Justin had, but she was
smart, more creative than Peter himself by far, and he wouldn’t
have to translate modern concepts for her. He’d always known how
soothing he found it to be around her but hadn’t appreciated it
fully until all of the other twenty-firsters had gone away.

“What if the king returns, and you’re not
there?” Peter said. “He would not thank you for leaving Lili
unattended, even if she is safe at Dinas Bran.”

Justin ground his teeth, clearly torn
between duty and duty. After a moment of thought, he said, “I’ll
leave you Simon, one of my men-at-arms. He speaks English and has a
quick mind. Given King David’s disagreements with the King of
France, I doubt the bandits are Welsh, and you won’t be heading
into Wales.”

“That’ll work,” Peter said. “Thanks.”

The rest of Justin’s company mounted and
began making their slow way back up the road to Llangollen. It had
been nearly four o’clock in the afternoon when the bus had left,
and darkness had been coming on. It was full dark now, and their
only light was the torch Simon held in his hand.

Thankfully, it wasn’t raining as hard as it
had been, and a swift breeze was blowing down from the north. The
air was colder, which might even mean snow if the clouds didn’t
disperse before morning.

Peter walked to his saddlebag, pulled out a
water skin, and handed it to Bridget.

She drank and passed it back. “What more are
you hoping to accomplish tonight?”

“Somewhere, out there, James Stewart is
alone and without friends.” Peter gestured with the water skin to
Simon, including him in the discussion. “I don’t think any of us
should be sleeping until we find him.”

Bridget gazed around at the darkened
landscape, her brow furrowed. “You know, it’s odd that the bandits
attacked during the day.”

Simon took a drink from his own flask, which
Peter was fairly certain wasn’t full of water, and wiped at his
mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t know about that, ma’am.
It was either attack in the light or not at all.”

“Why do you say that?” Bridget said.

Simon shrugged. “They attacked the carriage
only five miles from Dinas Bran, which was Molier’s destination. If
the bandits had waited any longer, they would have had to enter
Wales, territory they might know less well, and the ambush site
would have been even closer to the castle. They would have
increased their risk of being seen.”

Peter could see what Justin meant about
Simon having a good head on his shoulders.

Bridget tipped her head to one side as she
thought about what Simon had said. “If your intent is banditry, you
wait until dark and attack whoever happens by. If your intent is to
kill the emissary and/or capture the High Steward of Scotland, as
it seems was the case, then you have to attack at the moment
available, regardless of the hour of day.”

“So,” Peter took another sip of water. “Who
gains from the emissary’s death?”

“It’s equally likely that Stewart was the
target, isn’t it?” Simon said.

“And what about Geoffrey?” Bridget said.

“Geoffrey didn’t suffer a knife wound to the
chest,” Simon said. “He was collateral damage. The bandits might
not even have known he was Molier’s traveling companion until they
saw him in the party. The same could be said for Stewart.”

Bridget bit her lip.

“What is it?” Peter said.

Bridget took in a breath. “I’m just thinking
about bits of news that have come into Shrewsbury in recent weeks.
I’m wondering now if they aren’t more credible than we initially
thought.”

Peter frowned. “What bits of news? You never
said anything to me.”

“You haven’t been around much, have you?”
Bridget said, and then gave him a smile, which he hoped meant she
didn’t mean anything by the jab. “You were collecting the bus
passengers and escorting them to Dinas Bran, and the information
was delicate enough that I decided I had to speak directly to
Callum.”

Peter glowered at her. “Don’t make us wait,
Bridget.”

“I hate even to say anything, but we’ve
heard some chatter—” she put out a hand, “—not with any hint of an
attack like this, but—”

“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “May I ask what you
mean by
chatter
?”

“Think of it as gossip,” Bridget said, “or
simply as talk about a particular subject or event. When you hear
about it more often than you might expect to or come across the
same rumor from multiple sources, we call it
chatter
.”

At Simon’s nod, Peter returned his look to
Bridget. “So what have you heard?”

“You’re not going to like it,” Bridget
said.

“Tell me.”

“An alliance where one might least expect
it,” she said.

“Who?” Simon and Peter said together.

“Between King Philip of France and Gilbert
de Clare, Earl of Gloucester.”

Math

“W
hat exactly are
they doing?” Math said to Llywelyn as Anna and Meg followed Rachel
and Abraham into another room.

He understood the need to wait outside—he
was just the son-in-law, after all. In the medieval world, he had
no business being present at the birth of his own child, even
though he had been, much less at a breast exam of his
mother-in-law.

“You’re asking me?” Llywelyn said, in a
perfect imitation of Dafydd. Then he cleared his throat. “Meg
explained that they’re going to take a picture of the lump with
various devices, which will tell them something about what the lump
is made of. If they’re still worried, they might do a biopsy, which
is a way to take a sample of it.”

Math knew he looked horrified but couldn’t
help it. He almost didn’t dare ask, but asked anyway. “How do they
do that?”

“A big hollow needle, apparently.”

Math shivered. “No point waiting here by the
door, is there? Dafydd and the others have left, so we should
patrol the perimeter in case those officers of the state
return.”

A grateful look crossed Llywelyn’s face. “We
should. This is a mission like any other.”

Thinking about military tactics had been a
way of life for Math since he was ten years old. He’d been pleased
to learn that much of the principles he’d been taught had been
confirmed by Callum and Peter. One of these was not to split up.
Two men together kept each other awake, could spell one another,
shout when one was in trouble or down, and were harder to
disable.

Math kept a hand on the hilt of his sword as
they exited the waiting room, which he recognized from his hospital
in Llangollen. They had taken the stairs to the second floor of the
building, where Dr. Wolff’s examination room was located, and after
a quick survey of the associated empty offices and corridor, they
followed them back down again.

“How are you finding things so far?”
Llywelyn said.

“I haven’t seen much of anything yet,” Math
said.

“True.” And then, “It’s the perfection that
always strikes me most.”

Math nodded. “The lines are straight, the
walls aren’t just whitewashed—they’re
white
—and there isn’t
a scuffmark to be seen.”

Llywelyn grunted. “You haven’t looked
closely enough yet, but they’re there. This world does love a
straight line, though, I’ll grant you that.”

“Anna has told me that centuries-old
buildings are prized here for being—what was the
word?—
rustic,
” Math said. “They value what is old.”

“That’s something in their favor, then,”
Llywelyn said.

“Why would they value what is old when they
can make this?” Math gestured to the solid walls and doors
surrounding him. “I could hold off an army from this building, and
yet it sits in an entirely indefensible location with no guards, no
people. It’s
empty
at night.”

They’d reached the main corridor. When
they’d followed Rachel’s father into the building earlier, the
front doors had locked behind them. Self-locking doors meant Math
didn’t have to worry about anyone sneaking inside except on the
coattails of someone who had a key. Then again, it meant he and
Llywelyn couldn’t get back in if they went out either.