Guardians of Time (35 page)

Meg flung her arms around his neck and
sobbed. She couldn’t find the words to tell him that she’d feared
she’d lost him, but he didn’t need to hear her speak to know how
she’d felt.

“I am well,
cariad,
and so is David.
And … you and I have another grandson.”

Of all the things he could have said, Meg
had never expected that. She pulled back slightly, eyes streaming
tears, though she was starting to recover. “When?”

“Just now. We arrived in time for David to
be here for the birth.”

With that, as had been the case so often in
the past when emotion overwhelmed her, Meg began to laugh—and the
tears that flowed now were joyous.

David

B
y the time six in
the evening rolled around—which David knew because of the cell
phone he still had in his pocket—word had spread throughout
Llangollen that not only had he and his father gone to Avalon and
returned, but that David had a second son. By eight o’clock, the
hall at Dinas Bran was full to bursting for Bridget’s and Peter’s
wedding, which, while impromptu, was an appropriate finale to an
incredible day.

Then the whole family, except for Lili and
the baby, who were sleeping, and Darren, who was drugged up on
poppy juice, shared a meal with the people of Llangollen.

Math munched away happily from beside David.
“Finally, real food.”

“Abraham fed us real food.” David glanced
towards the end of one of the long tables that ran down the
hall.

Their friends who weren’t royal or noble sat
there, and even though eating with Gentiles was forbidden among
observant Jews, tonight Aaron remained among them, sitting next to
Abraham.

Aaron had taken Rachel’s father under his
wing, though it might not be long before he discovered, as David
had, that it was really the other way around. Rupert sat with them
too, morosely eating his roast pheasant and onions. So far David
hadn’t heard him speak a single word, which seemed to be due less
to the concussion he’d received than his anger at finding himself
in the Middle Ages. David would have thought he’d have been happy
that his underlying suspicions had proved true.

Of course, as long as Rupert was here, he
wasn’t going to have the chance to write his story, and David
certainly wasn’t taking him back to Avalon so he could.

While time travel wasn’t a get out of jail
free card, and David still didn’t think he’d ever used it as such,
God help him, he wasn’t sorry for the gift either.

David gazed down the table at his family,
relieved beyond measure that he hadn’t screwed up so badly that
anyone had actually died. If things had gone even a tiny bit more
sideways, they could have been mourning on Christmas Day in the
years to come rather than celebrating. That was a legacy he didn’t
want to leave his children.

David had the sense that his family and
friends were feeling similarly—that the brush with death was only
adding to the already festive mood, since Christmas was as huge a
holiday in the Middle Ages as in the twenty-first century. Children
raced about the hall, led by Cadell, who was amped up on sweets and
the return of his parents. They played tag among the tables, looked
upon indulgently by all and sundry.

The bus remained at Whittington Castle,
guarded by Samuel and his men. Eventually, someone would need to
figure out how to move it. The front axle had broken so it was no
longer drivable. Despite the damage, the bus had exceeded its
design specifications in more ways than one. David wished he could
send the company that built it a letter of commendation.

The repentant Fulk Fitzwarin had imprisoned
Aymer de Valence in his tower—inside the castle, rather than in the
one next to the bus—until such a time as Callum and David figured
out his punishment. Callum had allowed Red Comyn and his men to
form part of the escort for Mom, Anna, and the others to Dinas
Bran. The Scots had one of the long tables to themselves, and David
was in something of a quandary to know what he and Callum were
going to do with any of them either.

That, however, along with David’s
relationship with the pope, John Balliol, and King Philip of
France, was a problem he was going to kick down the road until
tomorrow—or maybe January. Thankfully, Jacques de Molier had woken,
and it appeared now that he would live. He lay in the infirmary in
a room next to Darren.

“I want to know more about Lee and what he’d
been doing the last three months,” Mom said. “What was his overall
goal? Why did he set off that bomb?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself,” Dad
said.

David had been avoiding thinking about Lee,
and with all that had happened, it hadn’t been hard to do. But now
he sighed. “In regards to your first question, Mom, I don’t know
any more than you. I suspect that MI-5 will be doing quite a bit of
backtracking in the coming weeks. But as to why he set off the
bomb—did you hear what he said, Dad, there at the end?”

Dad frowned. “Something about you being his
ticket? I didn’t understand what he meant.”

“I think Lee misunderstood the nature of our
time traveling.” Something oily and unpleasant twisted in David’s
stomach, counteracting the very good meal he’d eaten. “He was right
that I would time travel if my life was endangered in the
explosion, but I’m pretty sure he thought he would travel with
me.”

“I can’t be sorry,” Mom said. “I know that’s
wrong of me.”

“Lee killed people.” David sighed. “He was
mistaken if he thought he wouldn’t have paid for his crimes here
too.”

“He thought you were soft,” Dad said.
“People should stop underestimating you.”

David shrugged. “I won’t always be a punk
kid.”

Mom laughed into her drink. “You weren’t
ever a punk kid.”

“That reminds me—” Dad rose to his feet,
holding out his goblet before him. “If Lord Math would allow me to
impose on his hospitality for a moment, I’d like to propose a
toast.”

Math nodded at Hywel, who tinged the little
bell that rested on the side table for just this purpose. Anna shot
a warning look at Cadell, who stopped running and straightened up.
As a child growing up in a medieval hall, he had learned when he
was supposed to sit quietly while his elders spoke. With a few
snaps of his fingers, he had the rest of the children finding their
way to a bench or a friendly lap. Arthur crawled into David’s. At
three and a half, he was thrilled to have a younger brother and had
already begged his Uncle Math to make the baby a wooden sword so
they could play together.

Dad waited until the hall was silent, and
then he lifted his glass again. “To my newest grandson and prince
of Wales, Alexander Rhodri.”

“Alexander Rhodri ,” murmured everyone in
the hall. In solemn silence, they drank, and then Dad sat down and
the buzz of talk and laughter started again.

Callum, who was sitting on the other side of
David from Dad, put down his glass. “Sire—”

David forestalled him, smiling. “Rhodri Mawr
was a great king of Gwynedd, and King Alexander II of Scotland was
my supposed great-grandfather. But really, you should know that
I’ve named my son for you.”

“But—”

Cassie, who was sitting on the other side of
Callum, put her hand on Callum’s arm. “It’s a perfectly good name,
and somebody should use it if you won’t.”

David had told Cassie what he planned,
wanting to make sure in advance that Callum would accept his choice
for the honor it was.

Callum was still looking stunned. “You
should not be naming your son after me, my lord. Mathonwy or
Ieuan—”

“—are both completely unpronounceable to the
English. I’m the King of England. In this, I can do as I like.”
David lowered his voice. “Besides, I can’t give him a name that is
shared by any of my Welsh or Norman lords. The ones left out would
view it as a slight on them—not that I could possibly tolerate a
Prince Gilbert
or
Prince Humphrey
anyway.” David
shuddered theatrically.

Callum smiled, and David could tell he was
truly touched. David could think of few things that could do more
to show Callum how much he meant to him than the naming of his
son.

Then Callum’s brow furrowed, and he said
with an air of suspicion, “Naming your son after a king of Scotland
couldn’t have anything to do with the little altercation we
witnessed today in Whittington, could it?”

“I’d named him before you arrived, and
besides, I mentioned to Cassie before we went to Avalon that I
wanted to name my son Alexander. Isn’t that right, Cassie?”

She held up three fingers. “Scout’s
honor.”

“But now that you mention it—” David sat
back in his chair with a smile of satisfaction on his face, “—I
like the message it sends.”

“Everyone will assume your purpose is to
remind Balliol and his allies that you have a claim to the Scottish
throne should you choose to press the issue,” Callum said.

“They will, won’t they?” David grinned. “And
then there’s this business with France.” He looked to where
Geoffrey de Geneville sat at a far end of the table, currently
speaking to Bronwen, who could charm anyone with her smile—though
David was pretty sure she didn’t know it. She had always been one
of his secret weapons at court.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about going
to France to meet King Philip as he asked?” Callum said. “The last
time you and I boarded a boat together didn’t turn out too
well.”

“It did in the end.” David felt suitably
chastened about the time traveling, but he was feeling more than a
little satisfied about how his day had turned out. He raised his
cup to his friend. “France, here we come.”

The End

I’m so glad you’ve continued this journey to
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Keep reading for a sample from
The Good
Knight,
the first book in another series set in medieval Wales,
currently
free
at all venues:

The Good Knight

Intrigue, suspicion, and rivalry among the
royal princes casts a shadow on the court of Owain, king of north
Wales…

The year is 1143 and King Owain seeks to
unite his daughter in marriage with an allied king. But when the
groom is murdered on the way to his wedding, the bride’s brother
tasks his two best detectives—Gareth, a knight, and Gwen, the
daughter of the court bard—with bringing the killer to justice.

And once blame for the murder falls on
Gareth himself, Gwen must continue her search for the truth alone,
finding unlikely allies in foreign lands, and ultimately uncovering
a conspiracy that will shake the political foundations of
Wales.

August, 1143 AD

Gwynedd (North Wales)

“L
ook at you,
girl.”

Gwen’s father, Meilyr, tsked under his
breath and brought his borrowed horse closer to her side of the
path. He’d been out of sorts since early morning when he’d found
his horse lame and King Anarawd and his company of soldiers had
left the castle without them, refusing to wait for Meilyr to find a
replacement mount. Anarawd’s men-at-arms would have provided Meilyr
with the fine escort he coveted.

“You’ll have no cause for complaint once we
reach Owain Gwynedd’s court.” A breeze wafted over Gwen’s face and
she closed her eyes, letting her pony find his own way for a
moment. “I won’t embarrass you at the wedding.”

“If you cared more for your appearance, you
would have been married yourself years ago and given me
grandchildren long since.”

Gwen opened her eyes, her forehead wrinkling
in annoyance. “And whose fault is it that I’m unmarried?” Her
fingers flexed about the reins but she forced herself to relax. Her
present appearance was her own doing, even if her father found it
intolerable. In her bag, she had fine clothes and ribbons to weave
through her hair, but saw no point in sullying any of them on the
long journey to Aber Castle.

King Owain Gwynedd’s daughter was due to
marry King Anarawd in three days’ time. Owain Gwynedd had invited
Gwen, her father, and her almost twelve-year-old brother,
Gwalchmai, to furnish the entertainment for the event, provided
King Owain and her father could bridge the six years of animosity
and silence that separated them. Meilyr had sung for King Owain’s
father, Gruffydd; he’d practically raised King Owain’s son, Hywel.
But six years was six years. No wonder her father’s temper was
short.

Even so, she couldn’t let her father’s
comments go. Responsibility for the fact that she had no husband
rested firmly on his shoulders. “Who refused the contract?”

“Rhys was a rapscallion and a laze-about,”
Meilyr said.

And you weren’t about to give up your
housekeeper, maidservant, cook, and child-minder to just anyone,
were you?

But instead of speaking, Gwen bit her tongue
and kept her thoughts to herself. She’d said it once and received a
slap to her face. Many nights she’d lain quiet beside her younger
brother, regretting that she hadn’t defied her father and stayed
with Rhys. They could have eloped; in seven years, their marriage
would have been as legal as any other. But her father was right and
Gwen wasn’t too proud to admit it: Rhys
had
been a
laze-about. She wouldn’t have been happy with him. Rhys’ father had
almost cried when Meilyr had refused Rhys’ offer. It wasn’t only
daughters who were sometimes hard to sell.

“Father!” Gwalchmai brought their cart to a
halt. “Come look at this!”