He stepped out into a night which, like the day that had just ended, was unusually clear for this land; he could actually see some of the stars to which he had voyaged. On impulse, he ascended the rampart and leaned on the timber palisade, looking out over the darkened landscape. Yes, there were more stars visible up here above the scattering of torches that gave some illumination to the enclosure.
He heard a rustle from below and looked down. A cloaked man, his head not far below the level of Sarnac's feet, had emerged from the shadows and was proceeding toward the gate tower from the direction of the great hall. Then three other figures stepped unsteadily from the shadows and crossed his path. One of then staggered into a collision with the cloaked figure—Sarnac couldn't tell whether or not it was intentional—then sprang back, glowering. "Who do you think you're running down, dog?" he said in alcohol-slurred British.
"Your pardon," came the reply in the same language. "The night is dark." The cloaked man made to go around, but the trio moved to block his path.
"Oho! The Saxon pig can grunt in a human tongue," another of them said in the careful way of a drunk who is trying to convey a particular tone—in this case, sarcasm.
"He still needs to be taught manners," said a bystander who, like the drunks, belonged to the visiting tribal contingents and not to the Regent's guards.
The Saxon, as he evidently was despite his facility with the British language, spoke calmly. "I'll remind you that the Lady Gwenhwyvaer has forbidden all fights within these walls." The bystanders were gathering, in a way that bore an odd resemblance to an attempt to surround him.
"Aye," one of them said. "So it's too bad you started one by attacking Brychan here." The man who'd collided with the Saxon nodded with drunken profundity, endeavoring to look very much the injured party.
The Saxon looked around. "You may be too drunk to fear the Regent, but my men—who, fortunately for you brave lads, are camped outside the walls—will come looking for you. On that you have the word of Cerdic of the West Saxons."
It was evidently the wrong thing to say, because an ugly rumbling arose in which Sarnac could pick out the phrase "half-breed." Suddenly, the Briton who'd been doing the talking lunged for Cerdic. The latter's sturdily shod left foot shot out and caught him below the belt. Then the Saxon twisted around and fed another attacker a knuckle sandwich before disappearing under a knot of kicking, punching men.
Sarnac reminded himself that he had only one purpose in being here, and that any actions that might jeopardize the mission were to be avoided at all costs. He reminded himself that the rights and wrongs of the local residents' disputes could not be his concern. He even reminded himself that he didn't have all that much use for Saxons.
He was still telling himself all these things as he leaped off the parapet and landed feet-first on the back of one of Cerdic's attackers.
He scrambled to his feet and waded in, pulling two men off Cerdic and bringing their heads together with an authoritative clunk. It gave the Saxon the break he needed to get free of the tangle, and he began laying about with swings that were as powerful as they were unscientific. Nobody here knew the deadly hybrid form of unarmed combat that the PHL military taught its people, and Sarnac had enough presence of mind to avoid using it.
All at once, Sarnac felt a brain-rattling jolt against his jaw and the world turned to spinning galaxies of stars. He managed to get his right arm up in time to block a second powerful but clumsy blow, and his head cleared enough to recognize his opponent as Brychan. With all the force he could muster, he drove his left fist into the boozy Briton's gut. Brychan doubled over and proceeded to rid himself of his battered stomach's contents. At the same time, Sarnac took a blow from behind to the kidneys. Scarcely noticing the pain, he thrust backward with his right elbow, connecting with something, then spun around and squared off with his new foe, wishing he was wearing the impact armor on which the fellow would have broken his knuckles.
I'm getting too old for this shit
, he thought.
Why didn't I think to remind myself of
that?
"Halt! Enough, I say!"
As though by magic, the clarion-like voice transformed the scene into a still life. Everyone still conscious—except Brychan, who continued retching—turned slowly toward the approaching group of torch-carrying guards and the tall woman who strode forward at their head.
"By all the demons of Hell! Did I, speaking with the voice of Artorius Augustus, not prohibit all brawling?" Gwenhwyvaer was in a splendid fury, and as her blazing blue eyes swept the scene, nobody met them. Instead, these hulking warriors studied the ground, looking exactly like boys who'd been caught playing with their pee-pees.
"Er, it's
his
fault, Lady," somebody finally managed, pointing at Cerdic. "The Saxon. He attacked Brychan, over there."
"Bullshit!" Sarnac remembered to say it in British. "Brychan and two others, all drunk out of their minds, decided to pick on Cerdic. The rest joined the fun." Brychan had reached the dry-heaves stage and was in no condition to give evidence.
Gwenhwyvaer stepped closer and recognized the young Saxon through the battering he'd taken. "Cerdic! What in God's name have you done now?"
Cerdic gave a grin which obviously cost him some pain. "It's as this man says, Lady. By the way, friend, what's your name?"
"Bedwyr," Sarnac muttered, hoping Gwenhwyvaer wouldn't make any connections.
"Well, Bedwyr, if you ever need a favor, remember that Cerdic of the West Saxons owes you a rather large one. You did me quite a good turn, even though your name couldn't be more British. But, then, neither could mine. . . ."
"Shut up, Cerdic!" Gwenhwyvaer muttered through clenched teeth. Then she stepped closer to Sarnac. "Haven't I seen you before? Aren't you . . . ?"
"My bodyguard, Lady," Tylar finished for her. He hurried forward into the torchlight, followed by Tiraena in full "Philogius" kit. Following behind came the hooded figure of "Gerontius."
"Well, Tertullian," Gwenhwyvaer said imperiously, "he knew the ban on fighting. He must be turned over to the guard captain for judgment."
"I beg you to be merciful, Lady. I've known this man for some time, and I'm certain he would not have disobeyed your commands had it not been in defense of himself or others."
"He claims he was defending the
ealdorman
Cerdic of the West Saxons here against an unprovoked attack. These others say it was Cerdic who did the attacking."
"Well, Lady, I appeal to your common sense. How likely is it that the
ealdorman
would, in the teeth of your prohibition, single-handedly begin a fight in the stronghold of his people's blood-enemies? He would have had to be either mad or a fool, and I have yet to hear that he is either."
Gwenhwyvaer said nothing and neither did anyone else. Again her eyes swept the group, and again none met them. For once, Cerdic left well enough alone.
Tiraena stepped forward. She was wearing a broad-brimmed hat which helped her carry off the "Philogius" role. "I, too, beg you to show Bedwyr mercy, Lady. He's a rough, common fellow, but he means well." (
You'll pay
, Sarnac thought darkly.) "And I ask it as a favor, for you've known me before."
"When have I ever known you, lad?" Gwenhwyvaer asked, puzzled.
Instead of answering, Tiraena took off the hat and relaxed from simulating the body-language of an adolescent male. For a long moment, the two women stared at each other in the firelight and the silence.
"Lucasta," Gwenhwyvaer finally whispered. "But you're . . ."
"Lady," Tylar broke in quietly but firmly, "we need to speak to you in private. There is more at stake here than you perhaps realize."
At first it seemed that Gwenhwyvaer hadn't heard. Then she nodded. "Yes. . . . There are many questions that must be answered. Come with me to the hall." She turned to the puzzled onlookers. "The rest of you, disperse. Guards, see to it."
"Ah, perhaps I'd best be getting back to my men's camp, Lady." Cerdic began to sidle off.
"Ha! So the sight of your face can stir them to anger? No, you'll come to the hall as well, you can sleep there. We'll send a messenger to let them know you're spending the night." Without even waiting for an acknowledgment, she swept off. The four time travellers followed.
By the time they'd entered her private chambers and she'd shooed out a gaggle of ladies-in-waiting, Gwenhwyvaer's self-possession had returned. She turned to face them unflinchingly. "I know not what's afoot here, but you
cannot
be Lucasta, however loudly my mind shouts that you are, for you look no more that a few years older than you . . . than
she
did fifteen summers ago. I'll know the truth! And you, Gerontius or whatever your name is: remove that hood!"
"Is that my lady's command?" came the deep baritone.
For a time beyond time, there was absolute stillness as terror and denial and emotions less easily defined struggled back and forth across the battlefield of Gwenhwyvaer's face. Then she amazed all of them by speaking firmly. "Remove it."
The hood fell from Artorius's face. Sarnac managed to catch Gwenhwyvaer as she fainted.
She didn't entirely lose consciousness, at least not for more than a moment. Artorius was instantly at her side, and he and Sarnac got her to a chair. She blinked only a few times before her eyes steadied and her face lost its disorientation. Sarnac wondered at her lack of hysterics.
Well, Tiraena said she's a remarkable woman. And maybe this era's people find all this easier to take than those of my time would. After all, they don't
think
they understand the universe. For them, the world is full of unexplained mysteries, so what's one more?
Finally, Gwenhwyvaer extended a hand—not altogether steady, Sarnac was oddly relieved to note—and touched Artorius's cheek where the nascent facial hair had reached the bristly stage. "I'd almost forgotten what you look like without a beard," she whispered as though thinking out loud. "It's been so long . . . we were young then. . . ." She shook her head again and her voice firmed. "But otherwise you look much the way you did the last time I saw you, on your return to put down the western rebels after the Battle of Bourges. Not long after I last saw you, Lucasta." A smile flickered to tremulous life. "Does the journey from Constantinople restore one's youth, then? Perhaps I should try it."
"Gwen," Artorius began, "you must believe me, even though what I speak sounds like madness. On this night, Artorius Augustus lies abed in his palace in Constantinople."
"You . . . an imposter? No! I know you, Artorius—I think I knew you when I first saw you cloaked and hooded on the trail by the Cam where we once . . . No! Unless I am mad indeed, it is you."
"Yes, I am Artorius—but I last saw you before leaving for Gaul in 469."
"Madness," Gwenhwyvaer began. But Artorius pressed on, overriding her attempts to speak.
"I have, indeed, come from Constantinople—where I spoke to Artorius the Restorer. I tell you now what I told him: that I'm the same man as he, but in a world in which God ordered events differently. In my world, I was delivered by treason into the hands of the Visigoths. And a few years later, Rome-in-the-West ceased to be. Men believed I'd died. Then they made a legend that I was not dead but merely waiting until I was needed again; and they were right, but not in the way they thought. For, though I was grievously wounded, a most unlikely manifestation of God's mercy had spared me and also preserved my appearance as it was then."
"But," Gwenhyvaer finally got in, "you say that
you
met
me
just before leaving on your expedition against the Saxons and Visigoths in Gaul in 469 . . ."
"Yes. For you see, Gwen, this world and the world I've been speaking of weren't sundered from one another until the spring of 470, shortly before the Battle of Bourges in this one. Until then, I was in truth the man you knew, and you were the woman I knew. But at that moment, my life and memories parted from those of him who this world knows as Artorius Augustus, the Restorer."
Gwenhwyvaer's eyes grew haunted. "If what you say is true—and I believe it must be, for no one could invent a tale so strange—then there must be another of
me
as well, living in this shadow-world you speak of, who heard of your death even as I was celebrating your triumph at Bourges! What of
her
? Does she still live?"
"I know not, Gwen. It may be so. In my world, Britain took a while to go down into the dark, and she may well have lived on. But I can't say for certain."
She stood up, eyes aflame. "
What?
Do you mean to say that you escaped death, unknown to all, and left me . . . her to continue to believe herself a widow? That you never even took the trouble to learn if she was dead, or living in degradation? By God, I swear you'd show more interest in a favorite horse!" As though with the breaking of a petcock, decades of bottled-up hurt began to gush out. "I know your love died years ago, as well I should, having watched it die while trying in vain to give you the heir who might have kept it alive—"
"No, Gwen, no," Artorius whispered.
"—but I'd have thought that the very
memory
of love would have made you go to Britain, or send someone, to learn how it went with her who you once called—" She remembered the others in the room and cut herself off before resuming. "The loss of love I'd long come to accept. But hatred and contempt? Dear God, Artorius, what have you even been
doing
for these fifteen years in your world?"
And that,
Sarnac thought,
is going to be a tough one to answer in terms she can understand and accept, especially considering that it's been a hell of a lot
more
than fifteen subjective years for him. She's taken all this amazingly well so far—but time travel . . . ?
He watched as the man who looked to be in his early forties raised his head and locked eyes with the woman of fifty who had been born eight years later than he.