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Chapter 1. The Contract "I think I'll go for the Gourmet Tuna Salad," Richard said, decisively tapping his finger on the menu before laying it on the corner of the table, "No starter, though." The waiter murmured the name of the dish and began scratching a pencil on the little notepad he was holding. "That sounds good to me," Alison agreed, but with her eyes still avidly scanning the card she held in front of her; then she nodded. "Yes, I'm going to have the same, thanks." A decidedly smaller bout of scribbling welcomed her choice. The waiter then looked expectantly at the other two occupants of the table; Sally glanced at John, then looked up; it was she who spoke first. "The vegetarian risotto, please," she smiled with a hint of flirting, "And no starter for me, either." "Nor me," Alison added as an afterthought. "Hunter's Chicken," said John, completing the order and throwing his menu down onto the table in satisfaction, "Are you sure no-one wants a starter? The pakora in here is superb." Everyone looked at him without comment. There was always one. "Would you like boiled or mashed potatoes, sir?" the waiter persevered. "Do you do chips?" "I'm very sorry, sir, but we don't." "Roast potatoes?" "I'll see what I can do, sir." "Could we have two portions of vegetable pakora?" John said to the waiter, "We can share them," he added to his three dinner companions. Of course, that, as John well knew, meant that he himself would be able to partake of both platefuls, minus the tiny picking that his friends would have, merely out of politeness. "So, how are you two?" he said, leaning back, making his girth more obvious; something that was completely in line with his "Chips with everything" culinary taste, and when combined with his short stature and balding head, made him look far older than a man who was actually in his mid-thirties. His wife, Sally, by contrast, was petite and her sharp features were framed by blonde hair. She gave Richard an equally sharp look as she waited for the question to be answered. "Oh, all right," Richard replied. "Sorry we've not been out much recently. We've had quite a few things to do in the house." "Mmm," was Sally's response, making no attempt to disguise her stare, first at Richard, then Alison, before returning to the original recipient; it was clear from her manner that she believed the things they were doing involved being alone with the curtains drawn. Not that she was a prude, or anything like that; it was just that, in the circumstances, she disapproved of the union between Richard and Alison (as did a great many others). "We've been redecorating both the living room and the dining room," Alison explained. "And it's turned out to be a much bigger job than we expected. Maybe we've been a bit ambitious, doing both at once, but we'll get there." "Yes," Sally replied, sounding on the verge of unfriendliness, "I'm sure you'll get the house the way you want it, before long." The reason for her frostiness towards Alison (and to a great extent towards Richard, too) was something to which the newly-weds had quickly become accustomed, and had, realistically, expected all along. It was not that anyone particularly disliked Alison; she was charming and personable, as well as beautiful: her slender, willowy frame made her look quite a bit taller than her five feet, nine inches, a height that stood her only three or four inches shorter than her husband, and her raven-coloured hair and brown eyes complimented Richard's combination of medium brown and hazel very nicely. The problem was not Alison: she was lovely to look at, fun to talk to, a good and loyal friend; nor was it Richard, who was unassuming and charming; and indeed, neither was it the synergy of the two as a couple, being, as they were, warm and entertaining company. The problem lay in the circumstances of their marriage. In the opinion of his friends, Richard had acted rashly; perhaps through grief, they sympathised; perhaps through sudden loneliness, they suggested; perhaps through being dazzled by beauty, they wondered; but no matter what the reason might be, there was one thing on which all of his friends agreed: after the death of his first wife, June, he had married Alison (who at twenty-one was sixteen years his junior) far too quickly for anyone to consider it a respectable period for mourning. In fact, within days of June's death, the couple were regularly to be seen socialising in each other's company; within a few weeks of becoming a widower, Richard had tied the knot with his second wife. Almost anyone who knew him had been shocked and dismayed; many were also suspicious. Alison had seemed slightly embarrassed at the pointed barb, so Sally decided that, for Richard's sake, she would relent on this occasion and change the subject. "John was telling me about your job," she offered, talking to both Richard and Alison, "but he wasn't actually able to tell me very much." "That's because I don't really get it myself," John explained, slightly smarting at the injustice he felt, that ignorance on his part should be proclaimed by his wife. "Okay," Richard began, after first exchanging a meaningful glance with Alison. "You know we work for a company called Time Salvage Limited, right?" "Yep," John quickly responded, desperate to show at least some knowledge. "And you're time travellers." "Which is just about all John was able to explain," Sally interjected smugly, equally keen to show she had been right. "What we do, in a nutshell," said Richard, first drawing a deep breath, "is make brief trips into the past to collect information, or save something valuable." Both John and Sally stared at him, frowning, trying to ingest the meaning of his explanation. "For example," Richard continued, "a couple of months ago, we were hired by a billionaire stockbroker to save a van Gogh that had been destroyed in a fire only days earlier, at his country estate." "Thank you," Alison interrupted, only to be echoed by the others; the waiter had brought the starter to the table and John immediately grabbed his first handful, before (to the annoyance of Sally) speaking with his mouth full. "So," he reasoned, trying hard to understand, and just as hard to avoid the embarrassment of spraying his fellow diners with food, "what you did was you went back before the fire, got the painting, and then brought it back to him? The painting sort of jumped over the time when the fire happened, instead of being burnt in it?" Richard had begun to shake his head half way through his friend's question, and by the end had become a much more vigorous gesticulation. "No," he said, "we can't do that. It doesn't work that way." "So how does it work?" Richard thought for a moment. "Okay," he said again. "I can't tell you anything about the technology behind it - I wouldn't be allowed to, even if I knew - but this is what we, the agents, do. What we call the Transfer Room, is full of clear glass tubes - the official name for them is silos - and each agent goes into one of the silos to be sent backwards in time. However, your own body stays in the silo, and you arrive in the past, as a new person who belongs to the time you've been sent to. You step out of this thing called a candle, which is a purple sort of aura - it looks a bit like a flame - and you're free to move around and do whatever you like. Once your mission is complete, you just step back into the candle and you immediately arrive home in your own body. Then you can be released from the silo. "The thing is, we can't take anything back with us, and we can't bring anything from the past, either." "So how did you save this van Gogh, then, if you couldn't ... well ... save it?" "Simple: first, we broke into the house. The client told us everything we needed to know - after all, he was telling us how to get round his own security - including the codes for the alarm system. On the night of the fire, we got into the building - we actually sneaked in before it was locked - and hid, which was easy with the information he had given us. After the house was quiet, we disabled the alarm, giving us complete freedom of movement ..." "Oh, right! I get it!" John interrupted loudly and enthusiastically, then (in a much quieter voice after looking around in embarrassment at all the faces that had turned towards the sudden disturbance) added, "You stopped the fire from happening! That's brilliant! The things you could do with this stuff! You could ..." "No, no, no," Richard interrupted urgently, "we never do anything like that. We don't try to change history. That could be disastrous. We had to let the fire run its course." "So ... how did you save the painting?" "We moved it. We took the painting from the library and placed it where he had instructed us - in a part of the house that survived the fire." "But ... but ... how can that possibly work?" "What do you mean?" Alison answered when Richard's thoughtful frown gave her a chance to join in. "I think he means, doesn't that create a paradox?" said Sally, not wanting to be left out, and providing her husband with an ideal opportunity to listen with his mouth otherwise occupied. "The painting was burnt, so the client came to you to get you to save it. You did, which meant that the printing didn't get burnt. But because the painting didn't get burnt, the client didn't have a reason to come to you to save it, and that meant ... well, then it would get burnt, wouldn't it?" Richard nodded and laughed, while Alison explained. "There's no paradox," she said, "you don't get the whole of existence turning into a great big pile of goo. All that happened was that the client paid his bill, then went home to admire his van Gogh, with full knowledge of exactly where it would be, who had put it there, and why it had been moved. No problem, and no sudden implosion of the universe into a black hole the size of a pinhead, either." "But you changed the past," John argued, "didn't you?" "Not really," Alison replied, "not in any significant way. What difference is it going to make to the development of the world, whether an old painting exists or not?" "But things like that are relatively rare, in any case," Richard added. "Usually we just observe, and we are as careful as possible. For example, we could go back to Victorian Whitechapel and find out who Jack the Ripper was, but we'd never try to interfere with any of the killings, or the events following on from them." "So, who was he?" John immediately asked. "Don't know." "What? You mean you never went back there to find out?" "No-one paid us to, so no. This stuff is expensive." "Surely the government would be up for it." "Maybe they already know." John put his head back and laughed. "Ooooh!" he seethed. "I do love a good conspiracy theory!" "So that's pretty much it," Richard said, ignoring him. "Scratching around a bit in the past, trying not to do anything. The nickname we use for ourselves is, 'History scavengers,' which pretty much sums us up." "I think you do yourselves an injustice," Sally observed. "The potential for doing good is incredible." "As is the potential for doing harm," Alison reminded her. The look she received for her comment told her that Sally's mild hostility had returned, having been temporarily forgotten during the mind-boggling conversation. "How about going into the future to find out who's going to win the Grand National?" John then asked. Richard laughed and shook his head, "I wish," he said, drawing a look of disapproval from Alison before he explained, "We can't go into the future. Just the past." "So not as useful as I thought," John quipped, "Since that's not an option, is there much money in it?" "The money's not bad," Richard smirked, while Alison tried to look impassive, not wanting to fuel Sally's feelings against her by appearing to be greedy or conceited. Richard continued, "The company is worth over three billion the last I heard." "Three billion?" John reacted in amazement, "I didn't think it had been around that long. How old is it?" "It was founded in 2106." "That's unbelievable!" came the immediate response, "It took you under ten years old to grow to that kind of revenue? That's unheard of! No wonder you two are paid megabucks! If you've got that kind of growth potential, I'm surprised you haven't been swallowed up by some massive corporation." "We're not a public company, so we're not on the stock exchange for anyone to buy out," Richard explained. "And anyway, I don't think anyone could afford us," Alison added, only to receive another dose of the frostiness on Sally's face, having now exposed herself to suspicions of being possessed of a mercenary attitude. John again saved the day. "Any jobs in the pipeline?" he asked. "We've got a mission tomorrow," Richard answered, "Both of us are on it. Can't tell you much - we don't really know anything about it yet - we won't hear until we're briefed in the morning. The only thing I do know about it is that it's going to be under Medieval Protocol." "Which of course gives us an idea of how far back we're going," Alison said. "Pretty far." "What's Medieval Protocol?" "Right ..." said Richard, yet again pausing to gather his thoughts. "In a lot of situations, as I'm sure you can imagine, women can be a liability." Sally stared at him, open-mouthed in indignation; John again threw back his head and laughed; Alison exchanged an amused smile with her husband (although he would later pay for his choice of words). Richard let things hang in the air for a moment before defusing the effect of his remark. "If we go to a time before, oh, say, seventeen or eighteen hundred, there's a problem with having women take part in a mission. The reason is, we can't just magically appear out of thin air in the middle of a town. We'd be burnt at the stake for witchcraft. We need to materialise somewhere we won't be seen, in other words, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and then travel to our destination, almost always on foot." "But women can walk just as well as men can," Sally interrupted, still annoyed. "Better, usually. We have more stamina." "It's not that. The problem is, in those days, women just did not travel. Usually, the only reason a woman would make a journey was because she was betrothed, and was being taken to her husband to be married. That only happened with wealthy families, and she would most likely be carrying her dowry with her. So, if we took a woman on a mission, we'd be a magnet for bandits and robbers who would assume we were carrying money with us. "Under Medieval Protocol, all women immediately go back into their candles and return to the Transfer Room, and the operational team is selected from men only." "Richard," John said, looking confused, "I don't understand. If you only want men on the mission, why not just send men? Why send any women in the first place, if they're just going to turn and come straight back again?" Richard and Alison looked at each other and again smiled knowingly. "Em, here's the thing," Richard said. "Remember I said you don't go through as yourself? That you become a new person who belongs to that time? The person you become is pretty much random. Random height, random weight, random hair colour ... and ..." "And?" "Random gender." "Oh." "Yes, 'Oh,' indeed." "Statistically, half the people who arrive in the past will be male. Half of them will have been female before being sent back. Likewise, half of the females will have been male." The main courses had arrived some time ago, and had been eaten slowly during the conversation. Silence now fell over the table as the meal was completed, everyone deep in thought. Then John spoke again. "Tell me something," he said. "Yes?" Richard and Alison responded simultaneously, hoping to see a change of subject. "What happens if someone dies in the past? What then?" "No idea," Richard said, "never happened, fortunately." "There's a sort of link," Alison then expanded, "it's called a conduit. That's what links the silo to the candle. When you're transferred, the conduit is established and you appear in your new body in the candle. Your original body remains in the silo, frozen. As the conduit deteriorates, your body fades." "Fades? Deteriorates?" Sally reacted, sounding aghast, all trace of frostiness having completely melted. "When the conduit is established," Alison continued, "the amount of power you use determines how long it will remain open. While it's open, it gradually deteriorates, and your body fades at the same time. Once it's reached zero, the conduit is lost and the body has faded away to nothing. There's nothing anyone can do to help, because once the conduit is open, there's no way of boosting the power to extend the time it's open for, and unfortunately they haven't found a way of making it last indefinitely. The conduit also closes once you step back into your candle ... assuming you make it back in time, of course. Then you're back to normal, even if your body had almost faded to nothing. "So I suspect that if someone dies, all that will happen is that they (obviously) won't make it back in time, the conduit will close, the original body will be gone, and a dead body left in the past." "Wow," John said, his face visibly white. "So what happens if you're still alive, but you don't make it back before this thing closes?" "You're trapped in the past, as the person you became when you were transferred. There's no way of getting back, if that happens. It's called being orphaned." "My God," Sally said, "has that ever happened to anyone?" "Once," replied Richard. He and Alison again looked at each other; Alison raised her eyebrows and her husband tilted his head towards their two friends, indicating accordance. Alison softly cleared her throat. "It happened to me," she said. There were gasps from the other side of the table; "Oh, my God!" exclaimed Sally. "A ... few ... months ago ..." Alison began to explain, sounding uncertain. "There was a terror attack in London." Sally and John both nodded. "Yes," Sally said, "a bomb, wasn't it? Near London Bridge?" "Uh-huh," Alison confirmed, "and fortunately it was a cock-up on the bomber's part, which was thankful, because no-one was injured." "Yes, I remember the story," Sally acknowledged. John nodded. "However, the Metropolitan Police Counter Terrorism Command, knowing from intelligence that another bomb was imminent, with perhaps many more to follow, made the decision to engage us. We were charged with the task of observing the bomb being planted, then identifying the bombers to Counter Terrorism, who would then target them and shut them down, once they knew who they should go after. Two agents were selected for the operation: myself, and an officer from the Met. "But it didn't go well. We let ourselves get too close, got caught by the terrorists, and ended up having to fight our way out of it. In the struggle, I sustained a stab wound - quite a serious one, and when Adam, my colleague, was trying to get me back to the candles, we realised I wasn't going to survive long enough to get there. Other people had stopped to help, and one of them phoned for an ambulance, which saved my life, to be perfectly honest. Adam had no option but to let the paramedics treat me and take me to hospital, and that put paid to our escape. I was still in intensive care when my conduit closed, and Adam was forced to abandon me and return alone, leaving me orphaned. Of course, if I'd made it back, I'd have been fine ... no injuries, but ..." "Fortunately, she had only gone back five days," Richard said, "and she was female both before and after transfer. It could have been much worse." "Wow," was John's reaction, "that's terrible! That means ... Alison, I hope you don't mind, but ... doesn't that mean you used to be someone else, you know, before you went back?" "Haven't you guessed?" she replied. "Mr. and Mrs. Evans," Richard announced grandly, with a sweep of his hand towards Alison, "Allow me to introduce you to both my first and my second wife." Alison bobbed her head slightly, courtesying the best she could while seated. Both John and Sally stared at Alison, open-mouthed. She smiled sweetly in return. "But ... but ... Richard," Sally stammered, "June ... I thought she ... was killed ..." "By a hit and run driver?" suggested Richard. "That was the cover story. June was orphaned, leaving her stuck as Alison, so to get my wife back ... I had to marry her all over again." "You're actually June?" Sally stammered. "June... I mean ... Alison, I'm so sorry!" "No need to be too sorry," Alison replied, smiling magnanimously. "I'm okay. We both are." She laid her hand on top of Richard's and he turned his to clasp hers and give it a loving squeeze. "No need? Oh, Alison, yes there is!" Sally countered, "Some of the things I've said about you are unforgivable, now that I know the truth! And some of the things I've thought! How could you ever forgive me? You never could, if you knew!" "You haven't thought any worse of me than anyone else has, I'm sure," came the gentle response. "And that was only out of concern for Richard, and for June's memory - my memory, so I'd prefer to look on that as the righteous anger of a friend." "But for you," John then said, "it must have been awful, I mean, losing your identity just like that!" "I got through it," Alison replied, "I still had Richard." John and Sally glanced uncomfortably at each other, then back at the other couple, guilt written all over their faces. Alison may have had Richard, but, as far as friends were concerned, Richard was all she had had. Everyone else, themselves included, had thrown up a wall of hostility, thinking Richard to be uncaring, and Alison to be grasping. Their hands were still clasped on the table. "And anyway," Alison continued in a much happier vein; she had read the feelings of her friends and needed to lighten the mood, "once I got over the shock, it wasn't too bad, to tell you the truth. I came out of it taller, slimmer, and about fifteen years younger, so the way I see it, I got a free makeover." "And I got to trade my wife in for a newer model," added Richard, drawing a sideways glance from his wife. "Hey, watch it, old timer!" she said. "Or your coat could be on a shaky nail." **** "Close the door, please," Raymond Palmer nodded to the security officer at the back of the briefing room, and waited for him to comply. "Roll call?" he said sharply. Another uniformed officer answered, "All present." "Good." Raymond Palmer was head of Time Salvage Limited: a company that, despite its vast revenue, was still small and personal enough for the head of the organisation also to be in charge of operations. He stood on the small dais at the front, behind a lectern, Dr. Anita Harvey, head scientist, at his right elbow. "Ladies and gentlemen," Palmer began and an immediate hush fell over the room. He looked around at his assembled audience; sixteen agents were waiting to hear the details of their mission. He cleared his throat and began. "In the fourteenth century, the Bubonic Plague ravaged much of Europe from about 1348 until 1351, killing a significant proportion of the population, estimated to be somewhere between forty-five and sixty percent." Although the devastating effects of the Second Plague Pandemic were well-known, there were still a few soft whistles of amazement from his listeners. Palmer paused, savouring the way this reaction had enhanced the dramatic effect. He smiled grimly before continuing. "In the late thirteen-fifties and sixties, a number of local ad hoc censuses were carried out, to establish records of the post-pandemic population. One such census was performed in Groatswood, Lincolnshire, and recorded by the Abbot of Groatswood Priory, Thomas Brooker. Unfortunately, the priory was destroyed by fire in 1384, and the census with it." "Not another one," Richard whispered to Alison, who was seated next to him, and she smiled. "The Brooker Census is believed to contain comprehensive details of land ownership at that time, which is the principal concern of our client. The purpose of this operation is the recovery of this document, making it available as evidence in an ongoing legal dispute. The client wishes to remain anonymous." There was a quiet ripple of cynical laughter from the auditorium; someone was suing someone else over who owned some patch of land somewhere in Lincolnshire, and presumably their client was hoping to prove it had belonged to their family for centuries. "The destination date is the fourteenth of July 1384, which is three days before the fire. As you will be under Medieval Protocol, an extended pool of sixteen agents is being deployed, and upon arrival, you will select a team of four: one historian, one document preservation specialist, and two supplementary agents for support. "You will be transferred ... here," Palmer indicated a point on the map behind him, which automatically zoomed to show everyone the area in detail. "And will be required to make your way on foot to Groatswood Priory ... here. On arrival, you will locate the Brooker Census and move it to a safe location, before returning. You have plenty of time to get back before the fire takes place, therefore there will be no complications arising from the danger of being falsely accused of arson. "The historian will be responsible for the identification of the correct document, and the document preservation specialist for ensuring it is safely stored, ready to be collected once your mission has been completed. Are there any questions?" "Yes." Alison's hand immediately shot into the air. "Is there any information on the type of paper or parchment it was written on?" "It is believed to be paper," Dr. Harvey responded. "Oh, that's good," replied Alison, "that will make the job much easier." "How so?" asked Palmer, and Alison explained. "Medieval paper was made from linen, unlike modern paper, which is made from wood. If they had used papyrus, which is made from plants, or parchment, which is animal hide, we might have been in a bit of difficulty, but medieval paper was really durable and lasting - it lasts far better, in fact, than the stuff we use nowadays. Paper was rare in England at that time, though. Where did it come from?" "There are records that suggest Brooker began importing paper from France a few years before the plague reached western Europe," Dr. Harvey replied. "That explains it," Alison said, "that's good. We should wrap the pages in clean, unused paper, then conceal them in a linen bag. As far as storage is concerned, the ideal place would be a stone tomb, if there is a crypt in the priory. In such a location, the document won't be exposed to light, or excess moisture." The next twenty minutes were dedicated to the study of images of Groatswood Priory as it stood in the present day, and the selection of a suitable tomb, since fortunately the crypt was in a part of the building that was reasonably well-preserved. That completed, Palmer repeated his request for questions. Only one more was forthcoming. "Are there any clues as to how the document should be identified?" asked one man sitting near the back of the room. "Sorry, no, there's not much to go on," said Dr. Harvey in response. "Because the census was destroyed so long ago, there's very little information about it. However, it is believed to have been stored in the library at the priory, which is where you should search for it. That's pretty vague, I'm afraid, but it's all we can offer." "The good news," Palmer added, "Is that, like many men of his ilk, it seems Thomas Brooker was proud of the priory's library, and pleased to grant access to to anyone who was able to read, so you should have no trouble in getting on with the search. "Now, if there is nothing else, let's get ourselves ready and commit the information you will need to memory. Transfer is scheduled for," he looked at his wristband, "two hours forty-one minutes from now." **** Richard and Alison stood hand-in hand in the transfer room, surrounded by their fourteen colleagues, waiting for Dr. Harvey and her team to complete a long, methodical sequence of equipment checks. Minutes later, the announcement was made that everything was ready, and the glass tubes simultaneously slid upwards, making the white platform at the base of each silo accessible. "Okay, everyone," Dr. Harvey called, "in you go." The sixteen agents all chose a silo at random; Richard and Alison, already standing close together, ended up with two adjacent platforms. They gave each other a quick hug, then stepped on, holding hands until they were so far apart that they were forced to let go. The silos descended, shutting out sound from the outside and creating an eerie feeling of sensory deprivation, as if they were already cut off from the world they knew. After a little more activity from the scientists, Dr. Harvey raised her right hand in the thumbs-up position, and almost immediately a faint purple glow began to form in the perspective of each agent. Richard felt the usual mild disorientation as if everything were slowing down; both himself and in the scene visible outside his silo. To the scientific team in the transfer room, the agents were fading very slightly, like an image with the brightness turned too high, and the movement of each agent slowed until all were completely stationary. The agents, though, all saw the same purple haze forming around themselves, and the transfer room gradually faded out of existence, to be replaced with the blurred, indistinct sight of what looked like woodland. Once the silos had become invisible, sixteen assorted characters found themselves in a small clearing surrounded by trees. There were roughly equal numbers of men and women, all dressed in the fashion of the time: one of the men was clothed in a robe, but most wore coloured, closely-tailored hosen and a tunic which, in the fashion of the late fourteenth century, was short enough to make the bulge in the front of the hosen visible; the women in full-length kirtles, some with a small hat or a caul, and one or two wearing cloaks or robes. The initial instinct of everyone was to look down at themselves; many reacted with surprise, a small number with apparent amusement. A little to the left, stood a slimly-built man with fair hair and a surprised expression on his face; a man who, from his placement within the group, could not be anyone other than Alison, but before Richard was able to move or speak, a giddy confusion overcame everything else. After four previous missions, it was surely to be expected that it was eventually going to happen, but not even anticipation of the inevitable could do anything to provide a shield against the merciless onslaught of physical reality; it was not the sudden revelation of looking down to see a kirtle, nor was it the staggering unfamiliarity of the body it clothed; it was the suddenness of the difference, one heartbeat as one person, the next as someone completely new: the immediate, overwhelming bewilderment of her first sex change. Chapter 2. Medieval Protocol "Are you all right?" Richard heard a deep, pleasant voice somewhere on her left hand side; she turned to find the man she believed to be Alison, looking down at her in concern. She felt the security of his hands gripping her firmly just above her elbows and the world around her gradually slowed down and became more steady; she took a deep breath and looked fixedly at her wife. What was going on here? Why was Alison suddenly taller than her? and why did her face, despite becoming that of a stranger, despite having lost all of its beauty and softness, despite being far too close to hers, not seem repulsive? Richard felt the earth lurch beneath her feet once more, and the grip supporting her tightened again, now slipping around her back to encircle her. "Over here, sit down a moment," the man said and Richard felt herself being led unsteadily towards the edge of the clearing; her clothes seemed to drag at her, almost resisting the movement of walking; there was a linen chemise under her kirtle, she reasoned; presumably the close-fitting type that had become popular in the latter part of this century. The ring of protection around her guided her to a nearby tree and lowered her gently to the ground, with her back against the trunk. Alison crouched down at her side and looked closely at her face, then, dropping to the ground to sit cross-legged, he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and grinned disarmingly at her. Richard returned what was intended to be a brave smile, but could just as easily have been an uncomfortable grimace; she was not sure which. "The first time's always a real cracker," Alison explained. Richard did not reply; her head felt unusually heavy; she raised her hand and felt around, immediately realising why: she was not wearing a hat; instead, her hair was pleated and wound around her head, presumably pinned in place. "They say men always seem to take it worse than women," Alison continued. "Or should that be women always take it worse than men? Depends on how you look at it, I suppose." There was the sound of voices all around; one, another woman, was audible above the others: she seemed to have taken charge. She would be Deborah Bray, the nominated coordination officer for this mission. At least she was supposed to be female, Richard mused. Deborah was speaking to people one at a time, and three of the women, one by one, stepped into their candles and disappeared in a bright purple flash. "Never mind, at least you're going straight back," Alison said and Richard, whose beginning to gather her wits, nodded and smiled. "Yes, thank goodness," she replied and her eyes immediately opened wide at the sound of such a high, clear (and unmistakeably lovely) voice. "And next time this happens," Alison added, "maybe you won't freak out so spectacularly!" Richard laughed, another beautiful sound, much more relaxed now that she had remembered they were working under Medieval Protocol, and she would therefore be returning to the Transfer Room immediately. "Hopefully not," she replied, "if there ever is a next time." She held out her hand for Alison to help her to her feet. "If you would, please, kind sir?" she simpered. Alison jumped to his feet and straightened his face, trying to look as chivalrous as he could. "Dost not thee fret, my lady," he said with a bow, "upon my life I shall escort thee to the safely of thine candle." "Have you swallowed a Shakespeare play?" Richard laughed again; both she and Alison were rapidly falling in love with the dulcet tones her mouth was able to make. "And by the way," she continued, "it's 'Thy candle.' You use 'Thine' before a word that starts with a vowel." "Thankee, fair wench," replied Alison. "That is wrong on so many levels." "Huh?" "Thankee dates from the nineteenth century, I have dark brown hair, and if you call me a wench again, the side of your face will be stinging for hours." Alison laughed, then pulled Richard gently to her feet; both then turned at the sound of a raised voice: Deborah was addressing everyone. "There should be a fourth historian," she called. "Who is it?" "It'll be Richard," someone suggested before either Richard or Alison could react. "Yes, that's right," Deborah said, nodding. "Would Richard Bailey make himself known to me, please?" Richard timidly raised her hand; Deborah took one look at her and threw her head back in frustration. "Shit!" she proclaimed to the heavens. "Okay, everyone, listen up!" she then announced, "Didn't I always say historians were a bunch of old women? Well, today we have proof of that. Mission aborted. All four historians have transferred as females. Everyone, make your way back to your candle and return to the Transfer Room." There were many disappointed faces and Richard, who strangely enough found herself feeling a pang of guilt, as if it had been her transformation into a woman that had ruined things for everyone, stepped forward into the centre of the group. "Wait," she said, and everyone turned in surprise to look at her. **** Richard hesitated in sudden uncertainty. Having positioned herself so that she was surrounded by the rest of her team, she was taken by surprise at the sudden feeling of intimidation that had overcome her: she was roughly the same height as the other three remaining women, but the men stood a head above her. She paused to collect herself. "What?" Deborah barked, sounding impatient; now that the mission had been declared void, she was keen to return to the present day. Richard swallowed and took a deep breath, causing the breast band of her chemise to pull at her chest in a most disconcerting way; not the greatest encouragement she could have wished for, when steeling herself to address the crowd around her, of which she was among the smallest! "Why do we have to abandon the mission?" she said, trying to sound confident, but failing to put much, if any, assertiveness into her words. "Why can't we carry on as we are?" "Because we need a historian," Deborah snapped in response. "You're the only one left, and you're useless, since you're a woman, or haven't you noticed?" "Wow. I never expected to hear anything like that from you! You know what, that just makes you sound like a chauvinist ..." (she sniffed) "Sow." Richard ended with a quiet laugh, and the melodious sound won everyone over, making them join in; even Deborah, instead of taking umbrage at the comment, smiled at the irony of being jokingly accused of sexism by a man (or at least, by the mind of a man). Richard, now enjoying her moment, continued. "Look, haven't feminists been saying for years that there are very few jobs you actually need a penis to be able to do? So the fact that I've arrived here without one is hardly going to stop me identifying the Brooker Census when I see it." Deborah laughed heartily in concession of the point, but she was not swayed. "True," she replied, "but it would still be a breach of the Engagement Directive. Under Medieval Protocol, all women must return to the Transfer Room immediately. That makes you ineligible to take part in the operation." "I still think we can pull it off." "Regulations aside, you know perfectly well why women are not permitted on medieval operations. You would only attract trouble. The team could be attacked and slaughtered. Only the men, though - the assailants would have other plans for you, something you'd like even less." "But it would only be a problem if they know I'm a woman," Richard argued. "There are nine men here, and only three are needed, so the other six are going straight back to their candles. Surely six guys could scrape together enough bits and pieces for me to disguise myself as a man? They don't need everything they're wearing. Their own clothes are waiting for them in the Transfer Room." "Are you suggesting you cross-dress? You're the expert, but I thought it was extremely risky for a woman to disguise herself as a man in medieval times. I thought it was illegal." "It's not illegal, but a woman caught masquerading as a man could be lynched or stoned by a mob." "Explain that. Remember you still need my approval." "People in these times are extremely religious, excessively so, in fact, and their beliefs are often more like superstition than faith. They believe that, if God casts someone on this earth in the form of a mere woman, for her to pretend to be more than that is heresy, and will bring bad luck on the community. Then there is the question of fraud - women are paid less than men for doing the same job." "Really?" Deborah interjected. "You don't say!" "However, we're not going to be in a position where that will be a problem." "I'm not entirely happy," Deborah then said, after some thought, "but if you insist that you want to go through with it, I'll agree to give my approval. I'm going back, though. I'm a woman, and I'm not insane." In the discussion that followed, a further three team members were selected. Alison would be the document preservation specialist; another two men, who had both been male before transfer, completed the team as supporting members: James and Francis. Once assembled, Francis joked, "I suppose this makes us boy, girl, boy, girl." "You can look at that any way you want," Alison replied, dead-pan, "but it'll still be wrong." Deborah arrived at that point, interrupting them; she was accompanied by the other two women in the group. Pointing through the trees, she said, "We'll find a place over there where we're out of sight.. You three join the rest of the men and help them pick out some clothes, to make up an outfit for Richard. We'll wait till you bring them over, then she'll try them on. Bring some extras, if you can, in case we have to mix and match." Richard and the other three women left to search for a secluded spot, where Richard could change out of sight of the males. It took only a few minutes before Alison arrived holding a sizeable bundle. "No-one's gone back yet," he said, "in case you need to ask for more stuff." "Thanks, this is great," Deborah observed, fingering the garments, then she looked up at Alison, who had not retreated. "Thank you," she repeated, "but the men should wait over there and give us some privacy." "Does that need to include me?" Alison asked Richard, not giving any sign that he intended to move, "After all, there's nothing you've got that I haven't seen before." "I've got lots of things you haven't seen before. Go away," was the instant reply. Alison grimaced and left. "Right, let's do this," Deborah said, "I want to get home." She quickly separated the male clothes according to the type of garment each was, then turned to Richard to help her undress. First, the kirtle was eased over her head, leaving the linen chemise, which, as she had earlier surmised was close-fitting (and had no small influence over the way she moved). She hitched it up almost to her knees and sat, undoing the single buckle on each of her leather ankle boots, then pulling off her knee-length stockings. She lifted one of the boots and held it up. "Fortunately," she observed absent-mindedly, "in this period, men's and women's shoes were broadly similar, which means I'll be able to wear boots that fit me, at least." "Always a good thing," Deborah replied, "nothing worse than the wrong shoes. Up." Richard obediently stood and lifted her arms; her three helpers pulled the chemise over her head, leaving her standing in the nude. It was a warm day, but Richard felt herself shiver; perhaps from sudden exposure to the air; perhaps from sudden exposure to the gaze of the other three women; after all, Deborah was the only one she was sure had been female before transfer. She stood with her chin up; staring straight ahead to begin with, then, once she plucked up the courage to make eye contact with her companions, could be seen to be struggling against herself. Finally she conceded defeat; she closed her eyes and, after lowering her head, opened them. "Oh, my God!" she exclaimed in a mixture of disbelief and despair; she staggered; Deborah caught her arms the same way Alison had earlier done and held her until she nodded. "I'm okay," she confirmed, "thanks." "If it's any consolation," Deborah said gently, "Em, please don't take this the wrong way, but you are gorgeous." There were sounds of agreement from two other voices. Richard surprised herself by managing to laugh. "I won't take it the wrong way," she giggled in embarrassment. One of the women, Anna, lifted a pair of men's breeches and handed it to her; she gratefully pulled them up over her hips and sighed with the relief of feeling herself covered. The breeches were held in place by a belt of thin cord, which was fortunate because the waist was far too wide for her slender frame. The next thing she donned was a linen shirt. "That's all right," the woman on Richard's other side observed, it's small enough for you to get away with. There's one problem, though." She pointed at Richard's chest, barely resisting the temptation to demonstrate said problem by putting her finger on it. "You're going to bounce all over the place. Dead give-away." The woman, Paul, reluctantly withdrew her hand. She was simultaneously in Heaven and in Hell; when she had helped remove Richard's chemise, she had experienced both delight at having such an amazing sight unveiled before her, and dismay at the injustice she felt that, at that particular time, full enjoyment of the situation had been disabled. "Yeah," Deborah agreed, "You'd better take it off again." Paul smiled happily; before either of the others could, she was assisting Richard pull the shirt over head head again, and sighing in happiness at getting one last look at her upper body. Deborah lifted one of the other garments, another shirt, and tore from it a wide strip. "Lie on your back," she instructed Richard, who complied. Paul sighed again, wistfully imagining the ecstasy of lying face downwards on top of her. "Oh, in better times ..." she thought to herself. "This feels weird," Richard murmured and Deborah smiled knowingly. "Yeah, they get everywhere, don't they?" she said. "They're flopping under my arms, too." Deborah chuckled quietly to herself, then laid the strip of linen across Richard's chest. "Hold them in place with your hands," she told her, "And sit up. Keep them as flat as you can. I'll help you." Richard was already struggling to raise herself into a sitting position, something that became much easier when Deborah took hold of her shoulders. Then Deborah knelt down behind her and tied the strip of linen as tightly as she could. "There," she said, "Think I just invented the sports bra. If it comes loose, though, you'll probably have to get one of the men to help you. Let's just hope that doesn't happen. Of course, you'll have Alison with you." "I'm not sure I'd trust Alison any more than the other two." "Wrap this around your waist." She was given the robe that one of the men had been wearing on arrival, and had now been torn into strips much wider than the one used to bind her breasts. The others helped her wind it around herself so that it mostly disguised the slenderness of her upper body and the gentle flare of her hips. "Try the shirt again." Richard pulled the shirt back over her head and fastened the two buttons at the neck. "That's much better," Deborah said, "You should get away with that. It makes you look slightly tubby, which is great. Just don't stick your chest out too far and no-one will be any the wiser." All four shared a giggle, though Richard's was somewhat half-hearted. Over the breeches went woollen hosen, which, due to the short tunics fashionable in the latter half of the fourteenth century, were knitted as a single garment, like modern tights. The one they chose did not have leather soles fixed to its feet, for which Richard was grateful, because that would allow her to wear her boots, which would be far better for walking on rough outdoor terrain. With the boots back on her feet and buckled, she stood up and pulled the tunic over her head; it was typically short and immediately drew a groan from Deborah; a look of frustration was exchanged by the other two women. Deborah rested her forehead on her fingertips and closed her eyes. "This isn't going to work," she sighed. "Why not? What's wrong?" Richard sounded worried. "Look down." "What?" Richard could only see the ends of the tunic around her hips; the bulk wound around her waist stopped the tunic fluting out, the way it normally would when worn by a woman; below that, only her legs and feet were visible, and the way they were dressed was exactly the way a man's should be. "Hold in your tunic and you'll see what I mean." Richard pressed her hand against her front, as instructed. "Oh, no," she immediately said, in a groan equalling Deborah's. "Well, I guess that's that. Thanks for trying, anyway." Although her figure was slim and boyish enough for her to be able to pass herself off as a young man, there was one problem that none of them had anticipated until it was right there in front of them, or rather, until it became clear what was not right there in front of them. On arrival, one particularly striking thing had been the way the fashionably short tunics worn by the men had been showing off a very noticeable bulge: a bulge that was just as noticeably absent from Richard's figure. In its place was a small, beautifully shaped mound which curved onto nothing but flatness, beneath which, and between her thighs, the outline of her lovely derriere could be admired from the front. "We're not beaten yet," Deborah said and lifted one of the pairs of hosen that had not been used. It had leather reinforced soles and she tore one complete leg from it. This she folded back on itself a few times, gathering most of it into a ball at one end with the heel folded inside it, and the toe sticking out. "Here, shove this down your front," she ordered Richard, handing her the folded hosen. "The big bit first, and push it all the way down between your legs." Richard complied, and the result was convincing. The rolled up part of the woollen garment gave her a perfectly acceptable bulge, and the toe protruding from it provided just a hint of something at the top. "Perfect! One last thing." Deborah lifted a loose-fitting hat and plopped it onto Richard's head. "That's good," she observed in satisfaction, "because it means you can leave your hair the way it is. If you'd had to let it down, it would be far too long for a man. There! Turn round and let's have a look at you." Richard complied and was rewarded by triumphant smiles from her three companions. "You'll do very nicely," Deborah announced and both Anna and Paul agreed. Then she frowned. "Don't stand up too straight, keep your arms close to your sides and try to speak in as low a voice as you reasonably can. You should be able to masquerade as a ... say a fourteen-year-old boy, if you don't do anything stupid. Just try to be discreet whenever you have to relieve yourself ... oh, and if I were you, I'd stay away from women, because people might start to wonder why that thing isn't getting any bigger." Richard responded by pursing her lips in outraged discomfort. "And don't pout, either." **** "Welcome! Young sir," Alison said as the four women re-entered the clearing, "And who is this brave young knight, pray tell?" "Let's just get this over with," Richard replied as gruffly as she could. "And less of the impudence, thanks. This is going to be bad enough as it is." "You don't have to do this," Deborah said, looking steadily at Richard, "you can walk away right now, if you like, and no-one will think anything of it. You only need to be a woman for as long as it takes to walk from here to your candle." Not for the first time, Richard wavered, her determination beginning to crack; she looked longingly at the faint purple shapes not far away from where she stood; her candle, her home, her male body. The she steeled herself. "No, we're going to complete the mission," she said resolutely. "Have it your way," Deborah sighed. "All I have to say is, good luck. You may need it. I'll see you when you get back. We're going home." With that, she and the other eight agents turned and walked towards the collection of faint purple shapes that waited not far off; the candles brightened as they approached. As each one stepped into one of the shapes, it flashed brilliantly and both it and its occupant vanished. Deborah was last; she stopped inches from hers and looked over her shoulder, smiling wistfully, mainly at Richard. Then she turned and was gone. Four candles were left, all glowing faintly. The four remaining agents looked at each other. "Let's go," Alison said, "it's nearly mid-day. We'll be lucky to get to Groatswood Priory by nightfall." The team of four set off, judging both their course and the time of day by the position of the sun; being unable to bring any equipment with them, they had no map, so had committed everything to memory. Richard and Alison walked side by side and exchanged a few awkward words with each other, unsure whether they still knew each other, or whether they should still think of themselves as a couple. "How are you feeling?" Alison asked uncertainly. "In what way?" "Em ..." Alison faltered, unable to think of the words to ask his question without coming over as patronising or smug. He turned his head to look at Richard, who returned the stare, her eyes flashing dangerously. Alison was struck by how beautiful she looked; her eyes, a deep brown to match her hair, shone brightly with defiance and lit up her face: her small button of a nose and her lovely mouth, pulled thin in determination and dimpling her chin, revealing the vastness of her inner strength. She was bewitching. Richard, on the other hand, although she was amazed at what she saw and felt, was doing everything she could to resist her emotions. Alison was taller than her, as she would expect; his shoulders were at eye level to her and she could not help but notice the blond hair that brushed them; he looked strong, but not muscular, like a wiry young sapling rather than the solid trunk of a mature tree. His face was honest and handsome and she could lose herself in those deep blue eyes ... she mentally slapped her own face to bring herself to her senses. "If you mean do I wish this hadn't happened to me, then yes, I do. If you mean am I coping with being a woman, then no, not particularly, but there isn't a lot I can do about it, is there? If you mean how do I like being the smallest and the weakest out of the four of us, then I don't know why you even bothered asking." "I just meant with walking all this way. It's rough ground, so it's going to be difficult." "Difficult? You mean for a woman? Remember what Sally Evans said last night. I've got more stamina than you, so I don't need your pity." There was an uncomfortable silence. "I'm sorry." "Me too." It was a long and hungry march: although it was a journey of not many miles, progress was slow due to the terrain and their primitive footwear; this was only made worse by the difficulty of finding food and water: finally a few berries growing near a small brook provided a scant meal. Richard drank as little as she thought she could get away with; she was trying to find the fine balance between sufficient hydration and the threat of excess water collecting in her bladder. Eventually, though, she had to concede defeat. One by one during the course of the day the men had each taken a slight detour, leaving the main group and making a sojourn into the trees; they were gone less than a minute at a time and the other three travellers had no need to stop and wait for them. Finally, the moment arrived that Richard had been dreading: as she walked aside from her companions she realised they had halted. There were two reasons for this: firstly, they were reluctant to leave a woman alone with no-one nearby; and secondly, they knew she would take much longer than they had, and it would be unreasonable for them to continue walking and expect her to run after them. They were, however, gentlemanly enough to face the other way, making it unnecessary for her to venture too far through the trees. Purely through force of habit, her first false move was to stretch the hosen down from her waist, intending to hold it out of the way while she pulled up the leg of her breeches, but she realised immediately that to try that approach would be a waste of time, and could only end in embarrassing disaster. Instead, she pulled down the hosen, undid the briefs and pushed everything down to her ankles, then tried to brace herself against a tree. However she just as quickly realised that, with no previous experience, she could not be completely sure what was going to happen, and therefore was unable to guarantee the safety of the garments around her feet. Sighing in frustration, she unbuckled her boots and carefully laid everything aside at a safe distance; then she leant her back against the trunk. There was only one tiny crumb of comfort: as a woman, both her hands were free to act as a cushion, protecting her skin from being scratched by the rough bark. When she returned to her companions, not a word was said, nor was there a flicker across any of the faces; the group simply continued travelling as before, with Richard and Alison walking together. Being in front, with James and Francis several paces behind them, they were able to exchange a few quiet words without being overheard. "Are you all right?" Alison asked, sounding concerned. "Apart from wishing I'd had a bit more luck with my transfer, I'm fine. Why? We've already had this conversation, so what is it now?" "Nothing. It's just that you were gone a lot longer than I expected." "You of all people should know I need longer than you three do." "Yeah, but even so, you were ages. I was starting to worry about you." "First time. I had a few things to figure out." "What is there to figure out? There's only one real difference." "Two things. These clothes weren't designed for a woman. I had to dismantle half the stuff I'm wearing. Then there was the question of trying not to fall over." Alison laughed quietly, but in an understanding, not an unkindly, way. "Well, maybe you're getting the slightest taste of something I've had to put up with my entire life." "What?" "Your body was designed for the benefit of everyone except its owner." *** At length the road became easier, a sign that their destination was near. They rounded a bend where the road passed the outskirts of a small wood, and sitting before them was the monastery, Groatswood Priory, nestled in the shadow of a small hill. The sight drew smiles of relief from all; it was already late evening and the inmates of the priory would be getting ready for evening prayers, then bed. Their success, though, was a great encouragement and gave them a new lease of life. They walked briskly from that moment and soon were before the large oak door, upon which Francis was hammering with a closed fist. The door opened fully, without any trace of suspicion or hostility, to reveal a monk with a shaved head and clad in a rough brown habit. "Good eveningtide," he said to Francis, "if thou seekest shelter, thou art welcome, thou and thy companions." Richard, having greater knowledge of medieval customs and speech, took the lead, surprising the monk that such a young man should presume to speak for his elders; however he listened politely and without showing his disapproval. "We have travelled far, and our quest is to seek knowledge," she explained, "and we would speak with the good Abbot." "Enter, pray," the monk replied, "eveningtide prayers are fast upon us. Bellytimber and rest shall be yours, and Father Thomas would see you in the morrow, methinks." They were led from the entrance directly to the church, where the inmates of the priory were assembling. While the monks prayed and sang, the four travellers kept to the back, where they knelt and pretended to take part in the service; their pretence was not due to unwillingness on their part, it was merely because of complete unfamiliarity with the customs of the medieval church. Afterwards, they were taken to a small refectory, where they enjoyed the simple repast of bread and cheese as if it had been a banquet at a five- star restaurant, having survived for a whole day on a few wild berries. The monks ate little (their main meal was at noon) but were pleased to witness the satisfaction of their guests, something that admittedly came as much from need as from gratitude. Although the fare was limited, there was no shortage of the supply offered to the four travellers. Then came bed. Richard's heart sank. After everything she had subjected herself to, she had failed. It had all been for nothing. She was in an impossible situation. She considered climbing out of a window and running for her life. "We are few in number, and humble," one of the monks explained as they were guided from the refectory. "And so we are without housing for our guests. Beds are made ready for you in the dormitory." Richard's legs nearly gave way beneath her, and she slowed her walk so suddenly in her panic that Alison bumped into her from behind; he laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. She looked round at him and he was surprised to see how shocked and white her face was: she looked trapped. The three men in her company did not realise it, but a very big threat had unexpectedly presented itself, due to medieval sleeping customs: while peasants would sleep in their underwear, this was because their beds were typically made from straw, and a layer of clothing was necessary to protect them from the irritation they would otherwise suffer; but the nobility, the wealthy, the privileged (which, as far as she knew, might well include the inmates of Groatswood Priory) enjoyed the comfort of linen sheets, and consequently slept naked. Should their hosts expect them to sleep in the nude, Richard would find her pretence of being a man rather more difficult to maintain than she had hoped; she would be instantly exposed ... quite literally. It was almost a shock; the intense, overpowering feeling of relief when Richard entered the dormitory to see lines of rough wooden beds topped with straw; again, she nearly collapsed and Alison gripped her elbow to support her; he hoped the monks would not think it wrong for a grown man to hold a young boy so, if he appeared to be suffering great weariness. The beds they were given were at the far end of the room and Richard was automatically and wordlessly allocated the furthest away, to accord her as much privacy as possible. She undressed with her back turned, of course, removing only her tunic and hosen, as a shirt was regarded in those times as underwear, but then another unforeseen problem presented itself. Her false scrotum was only being held in place by the tightness of her outer garment: on their own, her breeches were too loose to prevent it falling out; furthermore, with the loss of the tunic's bulk, the shape of her chest was more difficult to conceal. She quickly hid herself under her blanket, lying on her back. Alison immediately leant over her and shook his head. "Turn onto your side," he whispered, pointing at her body. She looked and immediately understood: the thin summer blanket had settled such that it was lying flat upon her and two things were immediately obvious to anyone who happened to glance, even briefly, in her direction: firstly, the hint of a bosom, but even more striking was the fact that she clearly had no penis. Lying on her side was uncomfortable in the extreme: although her hips had a reasonable layer of subcutaneous fat, her elbows, shoulders and knees soon ached against the wooden surface, with almost no padding offered by the straw. She slept fitfully, partly because of her discomfort, and partly because she was holding her false bulge and was afraid that while moving in her sleep she might let it fall out of her bed; then it might be discovered or lost. In the morning she was woken by Alison prodding her urgently, and whispering to her that she should move. As she came to, she soon realised why: during the night, she had turned onto her back and her gender was once again plain for all to see; while her braided hair was less conspicuous from a distance, the form of a woman beneath her blanket was discernible from some way off. Without wasting any time, Richard pulled on the hosen and repositioned her false manhood, then donned the tunic. She stood, hat in hand ready to place it on her head whenever necessary. The four agents were all assembled, all dressed, all ready to continue with the mission. The only thing to decide now was what to do next; they needed to petition the Abbot for access to the library, but had no idea where to find him or how to gain his attention. As they stood, whispering to each other, they were interrupted by one of the monks, who they initially assumed was going to invite them to breakfast before, presumably, sending them on their way empty-handed. However the monk stopped short of where they were and bowed. "Prithee, break your fast with us," he said, "then the Abbot wouldeth speak with you." Chapter 3. The Brooker Census Thomas Brooker was a middle-aged man, slightly on the short side, but with no trace of excess weight. He looked at once both kindly and keenly discerning. The room they had been shown into was small, and most of it was taken up by a battered and scored wooden desk; the Abbot sat behind it. After a pause of only a few moments, he seemed to have made his mind up about something and he smiled. "Ye are welcome, my brothers," he opened. Was it Richard's imagination, or did his eyes meet hers for longer than the others? "Brother William hath said ye quest knowledge within our humble walls." "Verily, Father," Richard answered, receiving a benevolent smile from Brooker, who (unlike the monk who had admitted them to the priory) did not seem surprised that such a young man would speak first. "It is said there is great store of learning herein. We have travelled far to beseech you, that you might share with us the writings of the brothers of this house of God. Much has been told of Leofric and Cerdic of this Abbey, and it is the wisdom of these men that we seek." "My name," Brooker replied, "Is Father Thomas Brooker, Abbot of this monastery, Groatswood Priory." He then paused, and the four agents quickly realised he was waiting to hear their names. Alison reacted first, sensing the oddness of Richard's lead. "Robert, I am," he said, entirely making things up as he spoke, "of Ewhurst. John, my brother's son on my right. My other companions name themselves James and Francis." His three companions bowed as their names were given. "Ye are welcome, all of you. Come, follow, and I shall deliver you to that which ye seek." Brooker led the way from his small office to a larger room a little further along the corridor. The walls were surrounded by bookshelves bearing an assortment of scrolls, parchments, and some crudely-bound books. There was a table in the centre with eight chairs around it. The Abbot indicated the table and bowed. "Be content, and I pray that in time ye shall find all ye wish." The agents wasted no time in beginning their search. The three men perused the shelves, while Richard lifted a pile of papers, which she studied while seated at the table. From time to time the men would lay something beside her, for her to examine. Brooker quietly slipped into the chair next to hers. "I deem," he said, quietly enough that only he and Richard could hear, "thy mother to be a woman of great wisdom and virtue." "Pray tell," she replied, her tone of voice posing her words as a question. "The knowing of letters is a great boon for any man," Brooker continued, smiling kindly at her, "but a mightily bounteous gift for mother to bestow upon daughter." Richard gasped and almost jumped out of her seat; she stared back at him in disbelief and panic. Brooker, though, returned a look of benevolence that immediately calmed her; he raised both hands, palms towards her in reassurance; one he laid gently on her shoulder. "Dost not thee stir, my child," he said, his voice soothing, "I shall not thee betray. But tell, thy uncle: verily he knoweth thou art a maid?" Richard nodded. "And your companions?" Richard nodded again. "And they suffer thee to disguise thyself, for only in guise of a youth couldst thou make such a journey. A boon it is to behold wisdom in men such as these. But my greatest boon is to welcome thee, my lady." Brooker smiled again and without another word, exited the library, leaving the agents free to search undisturbed. Richard watched him go. "You were born hundreds of years before your time," she thought to herself. **** Document after document they read, but no trace of the one they sought could be found anywhere. Afternoon rolled on towards evening, when, finally, a gasp from Richard turned everyone's head towards her. "I have it!" came the hushed exclamation. "This had got to be the one we're looking for!" Everyone gathered round as Richard excitedly scanned the archaic lettering on the papers before her. She slowly and hesitantly muttered a list of names under her breath, together with descriptions of where these people lived. She turned and looked up at Alison. "This is the Brooker Census," she announced, "over to you." Alison was already prepared. During the search, he had come across a supply of blank paper, some of which he now used as a protective covering for the written face of each page; the sheets he piled one upon the other, and rolled them into a scroll, being careful not to crease any of them. The resulting cylinder he then secured by gently tying three thin strips of linen around it. From his tunic he produced a much larger piece of linen that he had had the foresight to tear from one of the bed sheets; this he wrapped and folded around the document, securing it in the same way. "We don't have a bag," he explained, "but this will do just as well." "Now all we need to do is get into the crypt, and find the tomb we're supposed to store it in," added Francis. "It's getting late," James said, "I think those Eveningtide Prayers are going to start soon." No sooner had James made his prediction, than a bell rang out through the priory. It was going to be impossible to complete their mission immediately; by now the monks would be gathering in the church, and the only access to the crypt was via that route. Quickly, they make their whispered plans: they would attend Eveningtide Prayers in exactly the same way they had the previous day, then supper, then bed; but while everyone else was asleep, they would rise, make their way through the church to the crypt, and there conceal the Brooker Census in the preselected tomb. Supper that evening consisted of bread and cheese as before, but was the same frugal repast as the brothers of the monastery, having taken their main meal at noon along with everyone else; the magnificent feast of the previous evening had been due to a state of great hunger being correctly judged. Afterwards, they wordlessly undressed and retired: their plans already made, they had only to wait for the chance to execute them. Later, in the dead of night, they crept out of bed; while the men quickly donned their outer clothes, Richard pulled on her tunic: she had not removed her hosen, to ensure that everything would remain in place, and she could therefore dress as quickly as the others. No-one stirred as they crept from the dormitory; the corridor was empty, as was the church; soon they had found the crypt and were searching for the tomb where, it had been decided at the briefing, the census was to be concealed. There it was: belonging to an Abbot of the priory, from the eleventh century, exactly as expected. The tombstone was heavy in the extreme; taking one corner each, it required the full strength of everyone to move it even an inch: not for the first time did Richard wish that four men were trying to manoeuvre it. Finally, with it slightly dislodged, it became possible to get fingers beneath the edge and raise it just a fraction: enough to be able to turn it almost noiselessly. Richard's role in this stage was merely one of balance: the bulk of the weight was borne by her three male companions. Alison selected the best place to store the document, above the Abbot's head against the wall of the tomb: not wanting to disturb the Abbot's remains. He was pleased to see that, as they had surmised, the inside was perfectly dry and would therefore provide the best possible chance for the contents to survive. Then came the task of replacing the tombstone and, very importantly, removing any sign that it had been disturbed; again, it was lifted until it was almost straight, then pushed back into place. Alison and Richard took the lead in dusting the tiny gap between tomb and lid with grit and dirt from the floor, to replace that which had collected over the past three hundred years. If any of the monks were awoken by the sound of them creeping back to bed, they would have thought little of it: most likely, four thirsty travellers had paid a visit to the refectory, therein finishing off any of the jugs of mead that had not been quite emptied at supper. **** The next morning, the groups were anxious to depart, but did not want to seem ungrateful, so they allowed things to follow their usual course: they attended prayers with the monks, then partook of breakfast, which was soon to be followed by more prayers; in the brief interval between the two they sought the Abbot to make their farewell. Today was the third of their mission; they estimated that by noon, if they departed shortly, they would reach the forest clearing where their candles waited for them, returning home about forty-eight hours after their arrival, and with a full day to spare. Richard bit her tongue and allowed Alison to do the talking. "Our thanks we owe to thee, good Father," he managed to say (having had a little instruction from Richard), "we are greatly in thy debt." "Ye are ever welcome in this house," the Abbot replied, "I trust yester readings bore fruit, and I hope ye find that which ye seek." When the Abbot spoke those final words, his eye rested mostly upon Richard. It was, therefore, around eight or nine o'clock that the party of four set out from the priory, after saying their farewells to a few of the monks whose acquaintance they had made, and after being furnished with a little food and water for their journey. "It's a weird thought," mused Francis, "that a few hours from now, those guys will have been dead for nearly a thousand years." "It's an even weirder thought," Richard replied. "What's going to happen to me in a few hours." "Really?" Alison said. "You mean, you think being turned into a man is going to feel weird? Wow!" "No, I just meant I hope this experience isn't going to screw me up for life." "I was hoping the opposite would be true. I've a lot to gain from a little empathy." "You got it," Richard replied, laughing, then she became serious. "I never realised just how vulnerable a woman could feel. I've always known men are stronger, of course, but ... Alison, I'm sorry. I never realised the extent. Tell me ..." Alison looked at her, waiting while Richard composed the question in her head, "As a man, and with you as a woman, do you find me intimidating?" "Not intimidating, no," Alison said slowly, after a moment's pause, "Some guys, maybe, but not you. You see ..." it was now Richard's turn to wait for Alison to think. "When you have a good guy, one who uses his strength to your advantage ... it's okay to be weaker than him. It can actually feel nice, strangely enough." They walked in silence for a while, Richard lost in thought, having much to mull over in her mind. Gradually the road became rougher, then began to peter out, eventually becoming little more than a woodland track; they had now reached the large forest where their destination lay, and although progress was becoming slower with every step they took, they were on course, and fully expected to reach the clearing in the early afternoon. It was when they were, as they estimated, within an hour of arrival, that they became aware of voices coming from a little further ahead. Not wanting to be delayed by meeting, and possibly having to explain themselves to, any unknown persons, they decided to conceal themselves in the trees. Off to the left they quickly ran, putting enough space between themselves and the track for them to be able to watch without being spotted, then each found a tree with a large enough trunk to hide behind; from there they carefully looked out. Presently, a group of five men, dressed in crude armour, appeared; the agents stood silently, keeping completely still; the unknown men walked past without the slightest sign they had any idea they were being watched. The agents watched them pass safely by; drawing level and were just on the point of receding into the distance, when one, obviously the leader, without warning, made a sign with his hand. How they had known, it was impossible to tell; perhaps they had see them through the trees and watched them flee to their hiding places; perhaps they had not managed to be silent after all; perhaps they had left signs that someone had recently left the track and trampled the vegetation around it; whatever the reason, they were discovered. The men immediately turned right and began sprinting through the trees towards them. "Shit!" James exclaimed as, simultaneously, all four realised they were being pursued. They each turned and ran, as fast as they could, into the forest, bearing gradually right to bring themselves around and towards the clearing. Richard could see both James and Francis ahead of her; at one point she managed to take a glance over her shoulder to reassure herself that Alison was with them. For minute after minute they ran as fast as they could; it was long and hard going, although not particularly fast by the modern standards to which they were accustomed: the combination of poor terrain and poor footwear made their progress frustratingly slow, although the same was of course true for their pursuers. The result was that they could run for longer before tiring; but eventually Richard could feel her legs become weary and her pace begin to drop off: however, a surge of panic always made her pick her speed up again. Finally, after more than twenty minutes of pain, a faint purple glow was visible through the trees on the right. James and Francis were already making for the lights; Richard followed, back to full speed now that her goal was in sight; the trees vanished from around them and they were standing in the clearing, their candles gradually becoming brighter as they approached. There was no sight or sound of pursuit, so Richard stopped short of her candle and turned around, breathing heavily; James and Francis were both with her, but where was the fourth? "Where's Alison?" Richard said, sounding frightened. James shook his head. "He was definitely with us," he said, "I saw him, not long after we started running." "So did I," Richard replied, "he was right behind me." They did not dare shout, for fear their assailants were still within earshot; instead, they crept slowly and carefully through the trees, retracing their steps, and every moment expecting to be pounced upon. No-one attacked them, though, and soon it became clear that they were no longer being pursued: they continued. Presently, they became aware of voices once more; they slowed and crept on, again with extreme caution, remembering how easily they had been detected the first time. Further ahead, at a distance, it was possible to make out six figures through the foliage and trees: the five men who had attacked them, plus Alison. He was seated with the others around him; they seemed to be questioning him roughly, but not at all satisfied with his answers. Without warning, the leader dragged him to his feet and led him off: his hands were tied. The others walked along with them: clearly, they intended him to remain their prisoner and were taking him somewhere. There was no option but to follow at a distance and hope that an opportunity would present itself for Alison to be rescued by stealth; force would be impossible, since, of the four agents, one had his hands bound and one was a woman: it would effectively be two against five, with the five bearing arms and the two not. Richard now found herself becoming frustrated and irritable; by all rights she should be back in the twenty-second century as Richard Bailey, male, holding his wife Alison, a woman, in his arms, kissing her passionately. As it was, she was becoming more and more conscious of her body with every step she took: the things she had but did not want, and the things she wished she had, but did not. Had she been a man, three against five might have been conceivable odds. For over two hours they followed without anything materialising; finally all hope was dashed when the party reached a small castle; there was no moat, drawbridge or portcullis: the doors were open and two guards, untidy and dressed in the same makeshift armour, slouched against the walls of the entrance. They made no sign, nor did they react in any way, when Alison was led, half-dragged, inside. Richard, James and Francis huddled down among the trees, out of both sight and earshot. "From the clearing, we walked north-west towards Groatswood Priory," Richard muttered absent-mindedly, speaking half to herself, "and now we've come roughly south-west to get here ... yes ... this is Groatswood Castle ... 1384 ... 1384 ... it's occupied by a man called Maclun Bemond, a sort of brigand. His men are rough and ready, and they're a rabble, but they're a cruel, vicious rabble. They're driven mainly by a liking for fighting and killing." "What do they want with Alison?" "They'll initially have intended to rob him ... us ... now they might want to question him, see if they can get anything useful out of him about any of their enemies, or anything they might want to rob or attack, but most likely they'll just keep him prisoner and kill him later. "They might make him fight for his life against a champion, or Bemond might execute him to reinforce his authority, if he gets jittery about a mutiny. That's especially effective if he executes him himself. We've got to get him out!" "We can't," Francis said, "there's no way the two of us can get in there and rescue him." "There are three of us." "There are two of us and a woman." Richard stared hard at Francis and gritted her teeth, but could think of no rejoinder. "We have no option," James now argued, "the rules are quite clear." Richard now turned her hard stare on James, but he persevered. "We have a duty to return before our conduits close," he said, "and we only have until the middle of tomorrow to do it. We don't have time to get Alison out of there. That means we have to abandon him and return on our own. We have to. We have no choice." "But we can't just leave him! He's my wife! He's your friend!" "Richard, the Engagement Directive doesn't leave us with any room for manoeuvre. We have to try our best not to leave anyone to be orphaned, yes, but in a situation like this, with time running out, we must minimise the damage and get as many people back as possible. That means the three of us have to return without him. I'm sorry." Richard was now in tears, but she knew James was right; she allowed herself to be helped to her feet and the group began to make their way back to the clearing where their candles waited for them. It took a little longer, about two and a half hours, because they were feeling despondent at having to abandon Alison, and their pace was slow and laboured. Finally, they saw the purple glow just ahead that told them they were nearly home. James and Francis continued towards their candles, initially without breaking stride, but faltered when they noticed that Richard's, instead of brightening as theirs did when they approached, was growing dimmer again. Turning simultaneously, they saw her walk away and slump onto the ground, her back to a tree; she bowed her head and began to cry uncontrollably. It was a pathetic sight and the two men nearly wept with her; both had eyes welling with tears. James, followed after only a moment's hesitation by Francis, walked over to try to comfort her. "I can't leave her," Richard sobbed, "she's everything in the world to me. I love her, and I can't just walk away and abandon her, not while there's a moment left that I could use to fight for her." She was so close to her candle and a return home, that she had slipped back into the attitude of thinking of Alison as a woman and herself as the man who loved her and who was desperate to rescue her. "God, I'm so sorry, Richard," Francis said, "but there's nothing any of us can do." He laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "That's where you're wrong," Richard responded with surprising force, turning her head to face him and making him recoil slightly, taken aback, "I'm going back. I'm going to rescue Alison or die in the attempt." "That's probably what you'd do," James argued, "neither of us can come to help you. I'm not prepared to breach the Engagement Directive," he looked at Francis who shook his head to indicate that neither was he, "So you'd have to go on you own. How is a lone woman going to fight her way in? And even if you could, what would you do then? You might be disguised as a boy, but you have next to no physical presence. Anyone you fought would only take seconds to realise he's fighting a woman. Then you'd just be taken prisoner and, like Deborah warned you, they'd have other uses for you. You have to come back with us." "No. I am going to Groatswood Castle to rescue Alison, without your help if I have to." "Then I'll wish you goodbye and good luck. I don't really hold much hope of ever seeing you again." James and Francis started towards their candles, then Francis turned and spoke. "Good luck, Richard," he said. "Please do your best to get back." "I will." "I'm sorry we persuaded you to come back here with us. That's wasted four or five hours that could have been better spent." "No, they haven't been wasted." Richard was now on her feet and she strode purposefully over to where the two men stood. There were still tears on her cheeks, but she was no longer weeping: she dried her face with the palm of her hands and stood proud and erect before them; both were taken with wonder at how the frail, heartbroken emotional wreck of moments ago had suddenly transformed into a tower of strength; both smiled in admiration. "I needed to come here. I can't go in dressed as a boy, because they would challenge any man who approached. But if I put my original clothes back on again, and go there openly as a woman, they won't see me as a threat." "They'll see you as something else entirely," Francis said, aghast. "Do you realise the risk you'd be taking? Especially given how beautiful you are?" "Much must be risked in love and war, especially love. Faint heart never won fair maiden, so they say." "You certainly don't suffer from a faint heart, but the problem is that stout heart and fair maiden aren't supposed to be the same person. None of the proverbs talk about fair maiden winning anything. She's the object they're all fighting to possess." "Point taken, but you're not going to talk me out of it." "I know." Francis pulled Richard into a hug. He held her for several seconds, gently squeezing her as if she were something precious of which he was reluctant to let go; she returned the emotion, gripping him just as firmly. Eventually they broke off the embrace and stepped apart. Both had tears in their eyes, but there was no loss of strength or determination visible on Richard's face. "Good luck," he said to her. James followed suit, holding her for as long as Francis had, and with equal feeling. "Please come home," he urged her. "I will. I promise," she replied. The two men turned and, without another word or a backwards glance, walked into their candles, leaving Richard standing along in the clearing. **** There was no more time to waste, and Richard now counted every second as precious. A little into the trees she found the place where she had disguised herself as a boy, and there, just as she hoped, her female clothes lay discarded, but undamaged. First she threw the tunic onto the ground, then put her hand inside the waist of the hosen and removed her false manhood; it was a relief to be free of it, rubbing uncomfortably against her as it did: how ironic it was that she felt so much better once her clothing was hugging her natural, female shape, even if in truth that shape was something she held to be unwelcome. The boots were next, then the hosen, and finally, with the removal of her briefs, she was back to the state she had been in before first donning her male disguise: standing in the forest, female, naked, and (thankfully, this time) alone. She lifted the chemise and put her arms and head inside it, easing it over her body until it fluttered around her feet. She was met with an unwelcome realisation that she tried in vain to shut out of her mind: the woman's undergarment was made for her shape, and so was comforting against her skin; she appreciated the feel of it more than she was willing to admit to herself that she did. She sat and reached for the stockings, pulling them over her knees, then the same boots went back on, but this time as part of a female outfit. Lastly, the kirtle, being much wider and voluminous than the chemise, fell easily over her head and into place. She was back as she had arrived: a fourteenth-century woman, and her beauty was no longer masked. Richard had originally transferred wearing only a kirtle over her chemise: unlike some of the other women, who had also had a surcote as a third layer, hers was of the type intended as her outer garment. There were no other women's clothes for her to choose from; only the men had provided clothing for her disguise, and all the women had returned without expecting anything of theirs to be needed. However, among the male clothes that had been collected for her two days ago, she found a man's cloak: while it would have been only calf length when worn by a male, to her it was full, and dragged very slightly behind her on the ground when she walked. She now set off immediately: she was determined to reach Groatswood Castle before nightfall. Chapter 4. Groatswood Castle Richard felt like a fairy-tale princess, stepping daintily through the woods, one hand holding the folds of her skirts, the other gathering her cloak about her, both lifted very slightly to avoid snagging her feet. Given her bizarre circumstances, she would not have reacted in the slightest surprise, should she have come across The Big Bad Wolf, dressed as a huntsman, leaning casually against a tree and drawling to her in perfect, modern English. Once she found the path that she remembered would lead her back towards the castle, she followed it, but kept close to the edge against the trees, all the time looking timidly around her, fearful of being attacked either by man or beast - one that might actually be real - and ready to flee into the cover of the forest if anything startled her. Her progress was unexpectedly and frustratingly slow: although she had walked (and latterly run) from the castle to the clearing in about two hours, she had at that time enjoyed the freedom of movement that came with being clad in male attire, and despite the discomfort of wearing clothes that did not properly suit her body, she had at least able been to stretch her legs and swing her arms freely. Now, to her annoyance, she was discovering the difficulty of walking in a chemise and kirtle, and had come to realise the clothes she was wearing were designed more for her appearance than her mobility. The return journey took almost four hours, and by the time she got there, Richard's legs were aching far more than she expected, and far more than she guessed should have been caused simply by another few miles. The reason, she worked out, was her garb: her restricted movements were limiting the muscle groups she was able to use, and consequently putting more strain on the those she was using to walk. This discomfort also slowed her progress, and it was almost dusk before her short, dainty steps had brought her to her destination; by then, to her great disappointment, the doors of the castle were closed. Richard sat on a stone at the side of the path near the trees, just within sight, and watched sadly as lights flickered within, illuminating the windows, making her wonder if Alison were in any of those rooms, what state he was in, whether he were being tortured. Much as she wanted to gallop to the rescue immediately, there was no way in except by the front gate, and should a shapely young woman be foolish enough to disturb the guards at that time in the evening, she knew exactly what her fate would be. Creeping into the trees, she found another stone, this time with a soft covering of moss, and over that she laid her cloak: a few folds on the stone to act as a pillow, but leaving enough length for her to be able to curl up inside. She slept a little, being too agitated in her concern for Alison to be able to relax, and at many times throughout the night, tears fell onto her makeshift pillow. Tonight was the first time since her marriage to Alison that she had slept alone. By morning, she was stiff and sore; the ground had not been as forgiving as she had hoped, and not even as comfortable as the hard, wooden beds in the priory had been, since they were at least even and relatively smooth. She moved and stretched to relieve the pain, then set about her work; during the night, her mind had not been idle, and she had not squandered the hours she had been denied sleep. Her cloak she discarded in the trees near the path; for the moment it had served its purpose and she would hopefully be able to collect it once she and Alison had escaped and were making their way home. She judged she would be better without it, as it may give her too much of the appearance of a lady, and it would be better, she thought, to look more like a peasant girl at the moment. It took her about half an hour to scour the woodland and collect enough wild flowers. Laying them over one arm, she gently held them in place with her other hand and then slowly, blithely, humming to herself, she made her way towards the castle. The guards looked at her suspiciously as she approached, doing her best to smile childishly; she could see and almost feel their eyes roaming over her, from her feet to her hips, lingering in the middle as they passed across her front, then up to her chest, to her head and then quickly back to her chest again. When she drew level, one began to push himself upright, as if he were about to challenge her, but she stopped and bobbed deferentially to him, holding out one of her flowers. He impatiently waved her away and slouched against the wall as before; her heart in her mouth, Richard passed through the archway and into the courtyard of the castle. The area around her was roughly square: reasonably large but not greatly so, and was also ill-kept and untidy. Three horses were tethered alongside a drinking-trough against one wall; there was an overturned, broken cart against another, with part of a bale of hay that had obviously spilt when the cart was upended; behind it was some rubbish. Richard crept behind the cart to find more discarded items: broken plates and pitchers, pieces of wood, a shallow basket with a broken handle, a damaged tankard; she scrabbled about a little more, but there was nothing she thought useful. The flowers she discarded against the wall behind the cart. Other than the two guards lazing in the entrance, there was no-one around, so she explored the courtyard and then turned her attention to the assortment of doorways leading from it. The one that first attracted her attention did so because there was an ominously dark staircase leading downwards immediately inside it; she peered through the opening and could see only a dim flicker coming from below; timidly, she began to descend. The stairs led to the right, and downwards in a straight line until they reached a doorway, again on the right: this, she surmised, must lead to a chamber directly below the courtyard. Hoping against hope that she had found what she was looking for, she edged forwards to give herself a glimpse of what lay beyond. The archway led into a wide corridor. On either side were recesses roughly hewn out of the rock to form three-sided chambers: the fourth wall of each was made of iron bars. Diagonally opposite where she stood, within the last chamber on the left, at the furthest end, was a figure slumped on the floor against the wall, and the sight almost made Richard cry out in elation. She had found Alison: he was alive, but imprisoned. At the very end of the corridor, in another, shallower, recess, this time without bars, there was a small wooden table and, sitting at the table, fast asleep, was the gaoler; slumbering drunkenly, she guessed, from the goblet and two flagons in front of him. Even at the distance from which she watched, she could see keys on his belt; however it would be impossible, she realised, to steal the keys without waking the man. He was large, and bald; both muscular and flabby in places; his face, even while asleep, looked cruel; there would be little hope for her, should she allow herself to be taken by him. Richard returned as quietly as she could to the sunlight and explored further. Behind one of the other doorways was a smallish room that she could see to be deserted, so she crept inside, to find more items carelessly discarded in the corners and against the walls; there she discovered something that gave her real hope for the first time since Alison's capture: a broken sword. Desperately she rummaged deeper into the same pile, and at last found an object that made her heart leap with renewed joy: a dagger! The wooden handle was broken and partly missing; the blade slightly misshapen, but it was still sharp and almost straight. She stared at it with delight, although there was still one significant problem: she was a woman; her kirtle had no pockets, so there was no obvious place where the weapon could be concealed; not for the first time did she curse her ill luck and the disadvantages her transfer had brought her. All of a sudden, a brainwave struck her. She concealed the dagger by holding it in the folds of her dress, and crept back into the courtyard to where the broken cart lay. There she searched for the basked she had spotted earlier; finding it, she examined the broken handle: although it had been sheared clean through, the break was near the base at one end and it was otherwise sound. She laid the dagger in the basket, covered it with the flowers and, with one hand concealing the damage, she held the basket in the manner of a serving girl carrying a tray, one arm around it and resting it on her hip. She then continued her search. Being early in the morning, it was not yet breakfast and, as she had hoped, the aroma of food was beginning to drift through the castle; another doorway revealed what she was looking for. Inside there was a large fire against one wall and a stout, middle-aged woman pottering about nearby. A table near the door was laid with a few plates with an assortment of food on them: bread, cheese, apples; all in various quantities, and most with strips of meat. Richard entered the kitchen with as much confidence as she could muster, making her way to the table. Immediately, the woman stiffened and turned round to face her, an unfriendly sneer forming at the corner of her mouth, wordlessly challenging her to make herself known. For better or worse, Richard had committed herself; she now had no option but to finesse her hand and hope to steal the trick: she pointed at one of the plates that seemed to contain the most generous portion, and be of the best quality; she asked, "Gaoler?" The woman's manner turned to an unpleasant superciliousness and she looked at Richard with a contemptuous, hard stare. Here was a girl from a nearby village, who had spent the night on her back in a corner of the dungeon, and now hoped to increase her takings by providing an additional service to the man she had whored. "Nay," the woman growled, striding quickly towards the table and lifting the back of her hand, as if she would strike Richard to stop her sullying the food simply by standing close to it; Richard took a step back, looking startled and the woman smiled in an obnoxious triumph. She then indicated a large plate at the side of the same table: it was laden with food, but although there was nearly as much as the one Richard had almost lifted, it looked to be of much poorer quality than the others; the apple had brown spots on it. "Gaoler," she said. Richard carefully perched the basket on the corner of the table without moving her hand from the break in the handle; she just as carefully pushed the flowers to the side without exposing the dagger to the woman's view; then she lifted the plate and placed it in the basket. The woman watched her all the way to the door, just to make sure she did not try to steal anything else; Richard was sure she could still feel the woman's eyes boring painfully into her back until she had turned out of sight. She did not look around, not wanting to make the woman suspicious should she be watching from the kitchen doorway; she walked straight towards the dungeon entrance, which would be exactly what the woman would have expected her to do. Only once she was safely through and had partly descended the steps did she stop to adjust her possessions and prepare for the next step of her plan. She laid aside the basket, and the flowers; she took the dagger, which she held with the fingers of one hand, concealing it below the rim of the plate. Then she descended the steps: this time her heart really was thumping; she was stalking a large, muscular brute with the intention of attacking him; she reached the bottom of the steps and stood, looking the length of the corridor at where her quarry still slept. Her knees were shaking. She began to walk slowly forward; she tried not to look at him, but she was aware of Alison's shocked reaction, sitting up in surprise when he saw the unexpected figure approaching; lifting one hand and shaking it feebly as if to say no; shaking his head in denial; Richard did her best but could not resist taking a single, brief glance at him, and she immediately saw his distress: he had thought that she was safely back in the present day, but now he discovered to his despair that she was in as much danger as he was. Richard steeled herself to ignore him: she had other pressing matters on her mind. The gaoler seemed to have a sixth sense and stirred before she had taken more than half a dozen paces; she paused, smiled coyly at him and then continued, swishing towards him in the most provocative way she could. He staggered to his feet and watched her, a look of avarice and lust growing on his hideous face; a face that grew more and more grotesque the more lecherous it became. By the time she reached the table, Alison was at the bars of his cell, watching in dismay. Richard laid the plate down on the table and courtesied at the same time; she lowered her head and pushed forward her shoulders to make the neck of her kirtle flop away slightly from her chest, drawing his eyes greedily, and giving her the opportunity she needed for slight-of-hand. While she was crouching, she slipped the dagger from under the plate and, by the time she was once more standing upright, held it concealed in the folds of her skirts. Her skirts she now gripped with both hands, holding them away from herself while she swayed suggestively towards him, bobbing with each step, biting her lip and smiling as provocatively as she could; when she drew close, she was ready, as she knew she would have to be: as soon as she was within arm's length he grabbed her by the waist and pushed her roughly against the wall; while her left hand she allowed to rise in a natural expression of surprise, her right she kept firmly around the handle of the dagger, and still concealed. This hand was not in the gaoler's way, so only her left was pushed aside as he gripped her breast with his right hand; pinning her against the wall with his body, she could feel his erection pressing against her; his left hand he lowered and began to grope at her through her clothing; his breath was foul and she felt nauseous, nearly making her drop the dagger as an overwhelming disgust washed over her. Alison could do nothing but look on, tears of despair in his eyes, as the gaoler lifted Richard's kirtle out of his way and began to pull her chemise up her legs and over her knees; he turned his head away in horror. It was then he caught the flash of iron and his head spun around, suddenly seeing everything in a new light: he watched, though still helplessly, gripping the bars with white knuckles, silently encouraging Richard as she put her arms around her defiler: to the gaoler, she was embracing him, but in fact she was now holding her blade with the point an inch from his back; her left hand she clasped over her right and she now had both hands around the hilt of the dagger. She pulled it towards herself with every ounce of strength she possessed. She felt the satisfying judder of the weapon slicing through the gaoler's leather tunic, then flesh, and heard the gasp of surprise and pain carried on his repulsive breath; Richard had been hoping to find his heart with her first thrust, but her victim had not yet fallen, so she withdrew the blade and plunged it a second time. The gasp of pain came again, but this time it was followed by a howl of rage as the gaoler realised he had been slain by the woman he had intended to use for his pleasure; she felt his weight press her harder against the wall, making it difficult to draw breath, then his body shifted and she waited for him to tumble to the floor. Her hands released the dagger, leaving it in his back. However the gaoler did not fall: although his hand released her chemise, it then struggled its way upwards until it found her neck and, along with the other, curled its fingers around her throat and began to squeeze with the intention of making his dying act one of revenge. Richard only managed to make one small despairing gasp before she felt her windpipe close; not another drop of air could she draw; she twisted and squirmed with all her might, but could not break free; she clawed at his hands and tried to prise his fingers open, but they were clamped tight. Alison cried in despair and shook the bars of his cell, but he could no more pry them apart than Richard could wrest the gaoler's grip from her throat. Purple spots were forming before Richard's eyes; there was a roar in ears and her lungs felt as if they would burst when, suddenly, the pain of cold air assaulted them and she began to make a strained gurgling sound as she struggled to take a breath she thought would never be drawn; the grip on her throat gave way and she managed to force her fingers around the gaoler's and pull them from her. He began to slide downwards; his face and hands slithered over her breasts, her belly; she shuddered as they slipped lower, then, finally he collapsed at her feet and exhaled for the last time. Richard's hands were already around her own neck, gently rubbing it to try to ease the pain of her bruised throat. She heard a man's soft cry from nearby, calling her name, and looked up to see Alison against the bars, looking at her in consternation; the gaoler's body was pinning her feet against the wall and she toppled, landing on all fours in the effort of dragging them free; she half crawled, half stumbled, over to Alison, fell once more, then used the bars to climb to her feet; hand grasped for hand and Alison helped her drag herself upright. They leant against the bars, as close to each other as they could get. Richard's wits were returning and she looked round at where the gaoler's body lay, the keys still attached to his belt; she pulled free from Alison, who had to force himself to let go of her. It took only moments to retrieve the keys, each of which she tried in turn until the beautiful, beautiful sound of the lock's rusty creak told them Alison was free. It was impossible to say which it was that Alison threw the quicker: the cell door open, or himself into Richard's arms. They held each other tight as they could: for the second time in minutes, Richard felt as if her breath were being squeezed out of her. Alison kissed her and she returned his kiss every bit as passionately: neither cared who was a man and who was a woman; all that mattered was that, after everything that had happened, they were together again. "God, I love you," Alison said, "I never thought I'd see you again." "I love you too." "You're a genius. You're wonderful!" Alison continued, then his manner changed. "You realise what could've easily happened to you, don't you? I thought you were safely home! Why did you come here?" "Nice to see you, too." It took a great effort to let go of each other, but finally Alison gently pushed Richard away. "We're not out of this yet," he reminded her and she nodded in agreement, her eyes closed. Alison took her by the hand and led her to the bottom of the steps; there he looked up. "How many are up there?" he said. "The only people I saw were two guards at the gate and one woman in the kitchen," she replied, "No-one else. The woman was cooking, so hopefully everybody'll be eating and there'll still be no-one around." "Anything else?" "There are three horses tethered in the courtyard." "Good." "And there's a room with some weapons in it, but most of them are broken. That's where I found the dagger." While they were whispering, they were also creeping up the stairs; Alison now looked out. "Nobody there," he said, drawing a sigh of partial relief from Richard. "You were right. Where's the room with the weapons in it?" "Turn right. It's the next door along." Creeping along beside a wall never makes anyone invisible, but it certainly makes them look suspicious, so the pair walked confidently from one door to the next, doing their best to seem as if they had every right to be there. The guards took no notice of them, and no-one else called out a challenge; they slipped out of sight and now both drew a deep breath and gave a full sigh of relief this time. Alison began to search. "Here, take this," he said, handing Richard a shield, battered but still sound. He lifted another, similar to the first. "That should do us," he said, "just one more thing. A horse." "I can't ride." "I can. Just hold on to me and I'll make sure you're all right. "Now, listen. Once we leave here there won't be time to explain anything, so I need to give you your instructions now. I'll lift you onto the horse, side-on, and hand you the two shields, then I'll climb up. You turn to face me and hold the shields one above the other to protect my back from arrows. You'll need to keep your head down so that I can see, and your legs behind the shield. That means you'll have to wrap them round my waist. Sorry." Richard shrugged. "Nothing you haven't done to me before," she said and they both laughed. "And a few hours from now, that's exactly what I'll be doing." They walked side-by-side this time, over to where the horses stood; Alison was in two minds when he saw how the horses were tethered: while it was convenient for Richard and him that the horses were already bridled, it is also cruel to leave a bridled horse tethered by the reins for very long, as it can injure itself if it struggles. That, however, gave him an idea: he released all three horses before he manoeuvred one of them near the mounting block. Richard gasped with amazement at how easily Alison lifted her onto the horse's back: he picked her up as if she weighed next to nothing, and it was her heart that thumped as if she had been the one who had exerted herself; she found herself biting her lower lip as she took the two shields from him. Alison hesitated: Richard had already pulled her kirtle and chemise up over her knees to free her legs, and he obviously liked what he saw. From the mounting block, Alison leapt easily onto the horse's back; he held Richard's waist to help her swing one leg past him; then pulled her close and she held the shields over his back. She was so tight against him that she could tell she was having the same effect on Alison as she had had on the gaoler, except this time it was far from repulsive. She ducked her head. Alison jerked the reins and the horse sprang into a gallop. The sudden movement startled the other two horses and they bolted; this was why Alison had untethered them, as it would earn them precious seconds, should anyone pursue them, if the beasts first had to be caught. The guards in the archway were equally taken-aback, but managed to draw swords before the fugitives were upon them; Alison pulled their steed to the side, striking one guard and knocking him against the wall, and also evading the clumsy swing of the other. They were free. One arrow, then a second, deflected off the shields and Richard cowered closer; Alison glanced down and was immediately taken by the sight of her lovely head; his heart rate increased and the feeling of her trembling against him caused a renewed reaction: Richard again sensed a surprisingly comforting hardness, while Alison was amazed by a welcoming softness that he would never have imagined to be possible. The horse was not fast by any means, but within minute or two they were out of sight of the castle and making their way through the forest along a rough track. It was at this point that Alison spoke words of warning. "They're coming. I can hear them." Their escape had lasted only five or six minutes and Richard looked up at him in despair, but Alison smiled grimly down at her; he looked determined, and she could see no trace of despondency on his face. She gasped, though, when, without warning, he pulled their steed to a halt and slid to the ground; he grabbed the shields from her and threw them as far as he could, out of sight into the bushes; then he took hold of her waist and, with a warning only of "Down" pulled her head first into his arms: she felt herself fall, but landed safely and securely, standing close to him. Alison gave the horse a sharp slap on the rump and it took off at speed. "Quick, hide!" he said and pulled her by the hand into the trees; they hid themselves behind a thick gorse bush. Seconds later, two horsemen sped past, but did not falter or turn. The sound of pursuit, though, was still audible, though at a distance; Alison took Richard's hand and stood, making her rise too. "We need to run," he said, "they're following on foot too." They turned and made their way deep into the trees as quickly as they could; the important thing at this stage was to put as much distance between themselves and the path before any of the men came close enough to be able to spot them; they kept going for about ten minutes before Alison slowed and Richard leant thankfully against him, stumbling forward with his arm supporting her; their run had not been particularly quick, being over difficult ground and with Richard handicapped by her skirts, but there were no sounds, or any sign, that they were still being pursued. "I think we're safe now," Alison said, "I can't hear anyone following us." "We'd better be," Richard replied breathlessly, "I can't run any more. Not in these things." "Take them off, then. I won't mind, if you don't." "You obviously haven't changed as much as I thought." "We'll have time for that later. We need to keep going." "Why did you get rid of the horse? We're going to be much slower on foot." "We had to. They were gaining on us. A horse can't run as fast when it's carrying two people." From that point, they took more notice of their direction; in an effort to flee, with that being their only priority at the time, they had wandered slightly off course. Alison now guided them by the sun, although it was still climbing and it was therefore well before noon. "Our candles should be north-east of the castle," he said, looking at the sun as he walked. "That's right, Richard confirmed, "I had to go south-west to get there." "Then we've gone a bit too far north. I think we're going in the right direction now." Just over two hours later, the sun was directly overhead, when Alison said, "This looks familiar." "Yes. I think this is the track we followed to the priory on the first day." "Then we've passed the clearing we're looking for. This way." They turned sharp right and walked along the rough track for about half an hour; Richard's feet were sore and her legs ached; she was holding Alison's hand for comfort. Then her eyes lit up. "There!" she exclaimed. "Just ahead. Can you see them?" Through the trees, about a hundred yards ahead, two faint purple lights were visible. "That's them!" Alison said, sounding delighted. "Come on, I'll carry you if I have to." Alison broke into a trot, which was the fastest he could go without either leaving Richard behind or dragging her off her feet. As it was, he was ahead with Richard trailing by the length of both their arms. It only took another two minutes to reach the clearing, but it seemed far, far longer; then the path opened out and there, ahead of them, now burning with a bright, welcoming, purple light, were the candles that would take them home. Richard ran forwards as best she could, hobbling from a combination of pain, restriction and rough terrain; Alison now walked happily at her side, still holding her hand, determined not to allow her to stumble and fall. The candles drew ever closer with each aching step Richard took; with each step the candles became brighter. Almost there, Alison realised he was on the wrong side; he was on the left but his candle was on the right; he stopped and led Richard ahead of him by the hand as if dancing a minuet, then walked behind her and took her other hand. Forward they strode and the purple light was almost unbearably bright. At last, they stepped forwards into the purple hue: both blinked instinctively; both, expecting to open their eyes to see the transfer room, instead gasped in despair. Alison looked left towards Richard; Richard looked right towards Alison, only to see each other standing amongst trees. Richard turned away and looked down, this time with a much more extreme reaction from that of three days ago: the first time it had been one of shock, but this time it was one of horror. The forest floor was still there; the kirtle was still there; the woman's body was still there; the purple candle was not. Chapter 5. Orphans Richard stumbled backwards a step and her knees gave way; she fell onto them, "No!" she cried hoarsely, almost in a whisper; she fell further, sideways, sitting on the ground with her legs under her, one hand on the ground, staring vacantly into space. Then she looked up at Alison, who had found the trunk of the nearest tree and was leaning on it, his head against the bark, eyes closed in despair. "How?" was all Richard could manage to say. "We missed it," Alison groaned, "it could only have been a fraction of a second, but we were too late." "How could this happen?" Richard's voice was a doleful whine. She sank onto the ground, her head resting on her forearm; Alison walked over and knelt beside her, putting his hand on her head in an effort to comfort them both. Richard was sobbing quietly, and there were tears in Alison's eyes. He was still trying in vain to find words, when a noise that neither of them had heard before startled them, making Alison turn his head and Richard raise hers to look over her shoulder. Richard and Alison may very well have been the first people ever to hear that sound: it was like the roar of the wind when a storm was blowing furiously, except muted, as if heard from within a draught-proof room; they watched as two purple shapes, like large flames, appeared from nowhere; for one blissful moment Richard imagined that somehow their colleagues had found a way to reinstate their conduits and bring them home. The sound terminated with a harsh snap, that sounded to Richard and Alison like the crack of a whip, or perhaps more like the arcing of a high voltage spark, and at the same time, two figures appeared within the purple shapes: two women, dressed in medieval garb similar to Richard, who then stepped forward from their candles. Richard's heart sank; her brief fantasy of rescue vanished; it had only been a passing fancy, and she had never truly believed it, in any case. The two women paused and looked down at themselves; the one on the left smiled in what might have been relief, but the reaction of the other was more akin to Richard's of three days ago; her eyes opened wide; her fingers spread themselves out; she barely stopped herself from placing her hands on her chest, and instead settled for hugging herself around the waist, well out of the way; then she thought better of that and moved her arms outwards, to stop them pressing against her breasts; suddenly, realising that she was standing with her hands clasped in front of her, in a classic feminine pose, she elected to drop her arms to her sides, and there she stood, in another classic feminine pose, looking uncomfortable in the extreme. The first woman decided, being obviously the more composed of the two, to take the lead. "Alison?" she said. "Richard?" Without a word, Alison stood and walked a few paces towards the newcomers and stopped, looking at the woman who had spoken. After a pause, he said, "I'm Alison." The woman's mouth fell open, but in sorrow more than shock. She turned and looked at the woman sitting on the ground a few yards away. "Richard?" she whispered. The woman nodded. "Oh, God," came the response, "I'm so sorry, guys. I wish there was something we could do." Richard bowed her head and began to cry again; although she already knew their plight was futile beyond all hope, actually hearing those words confirm it was like a blow to the heart. "For some reason, I'd been clinging to the hope that Deborah was mistaken when she said your sexes had been reversed. She told me you had broken Medieval Protocol, but there was nothing we could do while your conduits were still open. If you had just returned like you were supposed to, we could have sent another party, once the zone was clear. Now all we can do is sympathise with you." "So what do we do now?" Alison asked, quite simply, then, "Who are you, by the way?" The woman seemed relieved to have something to talk about that did not involve dealing directly with Richard's and Alison's sorry state, so she immediately jumped at the chance to change the subject, if only temporarily. "I'm Anita Harvey," she said. "Dr. Harvey," Alison greeted her. "And you?" he turned towards the other woman, who had not yet said a word, and who still looked awkward and embarrassed. "He ... she ... is Raymond Palmer," Anita explained with a straight face, but a twinkle of humour in her eye. "Right," Alison replied, "I had sort of guessed she was a man." "Was," Anita emphasised, with the tiniest hint of a wink at Raymond, who responded with a look that she quite obviously wished could kill. Anita giggled and said, "Oh, wow! You've got 'The Look' down to a tee! You should stay as you are. You'd be brilliant!" "Could we just get this over with?" Raymond impatiently rejoined, reacting in surprise at hearing her voice for the first time. She swallowed hard. "It sounds like you're here for a reason," Alison suggested; Anita grimaced, looking uncertain. "A couple of things," she replied. "Firstly, to debrief you. The mission was a complete success. The Brooker Census has been recovered and found to be in perfect condition, thanks to both of you. Both James and Francis reported that almost all of the work was done by yourselves. Well done." "We'll be sorry to lose you," Raymond added. Richard, who by now had risen and walked over to Alison, and was standing with her hand in his closed her eyes and turned her head towards him; he could be seen to squeeze her hand gently. "You've found it already?" Richard said bitterly, without looking round or even opening her eyes. "You don't waste much time, do you?" "We have all the time we need," Anita replied. "We can go back to any time we like, as long as we avoid conduits that are already open. In our time-line, you were orphaned six months ago." "Six months? You waited six months before you bothered to come and see us?" Richard's eyes were now wide open, and her head was very much turned towards Anita, who did not try to defend herself in any way, and simply looked sorrowfully at her. Alison tried to defuse the situation. "You said there was more then one thing." "Yes," Anita replied, but still did not look happy, "we want to do our best to help you any way we can." "Can you get us home?" was Richard's immediate reaction; her voice was bitter, her tone full of sarcasm. Anita shook her head. "No, I'm sorry," she said, "you were orphaned, and that means you don't belong to the twenty-second century any more. Richard and Alison Bailey no longer exist, and this is where you belong now, in thirteen-eighty-four." "There must be something you can do! Can't you somehow get technicians back here? Build something?" "You know yourself, we can only send agents into the past. Even if we could create another transfer chamber, which would be impossible because we'd need raw materials that won't be available for centuries, it wouldn't do you and Alison any good. No-one can go forwards, except through the normal passage of time." "No, please! You can't just leave us stranded here! We can't be stuck here! We can't live here! We've got got to get back! We've got to!" Richard sank involuntarily to her knees; she was in tears and barely coherent. All Anita and Raymond were able to do was stare back at her, silently, trying to control their own feelings. "It's not fair for me to be made into a woman, then be trapped like this!" "But," Raymond now interjected, "you think that if you could go back to your own time again, then it would be fair for Alison to be made into a woman?" "It's not the same! Alison is a woman in the twenty-second century. I'm going to be forced to live as a woman in the fourteenth! In this time, women are no more than chattel. A man places more value on his horse or his cows than he does on his wife or daughter. "If you can't do anything to help us get home again, then what's the point in you being here?" "Even if we can't bring you back, there are things we can do to help you transition to living here." "Like what? Running water? Sanitation? Or maybe you've got an MP3 player on you?" "Over the past six months, we've commissioned extensive research into this part of Britain, now and over the next few decades, to notable events, and people of importance, which includes, incidentally, two figures in particular, that we have come to realise are yourselves. "Your names, for example. You, Alison, are Robert of Ewhurst, and your name, Richard, is now Catherine Weaver, at least that's your maiden name. You are the future Catherine of Ewhurst." "What?" was the surprised reaction; more from the unfamiliarity of thinking in terms of maiden and married names than anything else. "Catherine ..." she repeated quietly to herself. "If you take my advice, you will marry. That will make it easier for Alis... Robert to ..." "To claim me as his property." "To put it bluntly, yes, but what I really meant was, to protect you. You should know yourself, as an unmarried woman you would be regarded as fair game by anyone who took a fancy to you, but if you and Robert were married, you'd be regarded as having been united by God, and very few people would dare to go against that." Catherine made no reply; she simply stared up at Robert, looking uncomfortable; he helped her to her feet. "Of course," Anita continued, "you don't have to be married by a priest. All you need to do is ..." "Yes, I know," Catherine interrupted sharply. "What?" Robert asked; Catherine stared fiercely at him. "In medieval times, all a couple needs to do is have sex," she replied, "and they would be regarded as legally married. That's because extra-marital sex was considered to be unthinkable." "Okay," Robert said, smirking, "I don't mind if you don't." "Thank you," Catherine shot back. "Let's just find a priest." "Are you not even going to give me the pleasure of proposing?" "I think I just did. I make that the third time, by the way." Anita interrupted. "We don't have much longer," she said and Catherine shrugged her shoulders. "Lucky you." "Please. We have some things to tell you before we return." "Sorry," Catherine replied, "not been myself lately." "There's a monastery a few miles from here," Anita said, "apart from Groatswood Priory, I mean." "That would be Bellingbrook Abbey, wouldn't it?" Catherine interrupted. "Yes, and also another castle within ten miles of the abbey." "You mean Rybourne Castle, the home of Edward, Duke of Rybourne." "That's right. He's a good friend of King Richard. He helped him suppress the Peasants' Revolt, and remained loyal, only wavering when Richard became something of a tyrant towards the end of his reign. That loyalty (while it lasted) earned Edward great favour, and power. It also rubbed off on one of his closest friends, and chief advisor, Robert of Ewhurst." Catherine reacted with surprise; she looked from Anita to Robert and then back again. "Of course," Anita explained, "this won't be familiar to you, Catherine, because Robert of Ewhurst didn't exist when you studied history. "Robert was befriended by the duke on the basis of his escape from imprisonment in Groatswood Castle at the hands of Maclun Bemond, a long time adversary of his." Catherine stared at her, mouth open in indignation. "Although you, Catherine, were accorded some credit for your part in releasing Robert from his cell, the men who recounted the story preferred to dwell on Robert's daring escape with not only his own life, but that of the woman under his protection; instead of the underhand knife-work of a mere wench who distracted her victim with a woman's wiles. I'm afraid that's just how things were in the middle ages, as you will be perfectly well aware. "I'm sorry. I've just realised I've been speaking about you in the past tense. To you, of course, we're talking about the future. It's difficult. I find this extremely off-putting." "My heart bleeds for you." "Impressed by your bravery in escaping from Bemond, the duke will see fit to place no small trust in you, Robert, especially since you will soon have the opportunity to help him foil an attempt on the life of King Richard." "That I know of," Catherine interrupted, "the attack on King Richard by Bemond and his men is well documented, but it was the Duke of Rybourne alone who foiled it, and that completely by chance." "Not any more," replied Anita, "acting on Robert's advice, having claimed to have overheard Bemond's plans while in Groatswood Castle, Edward, Duke of Rybourne and Robert of Ewhurst, together, thwarted the attack on the king, an event which marked a rapid rise in the fortunes of both Edward and you, Robert." Anita then proceeded to explain the circumstances not only of the attempt on the king's life they had been discussing, but of several other events, relatively minor, but knowledge of which would be useful to the two stranded agents. That done, Anita then spoke directly to Catherine. "Can I have a word with you, Catherine, please? In private." Catherine looked surprised, but she nodded and followed Anita to the far end of the clearing. There they talked for several minutes and when they returned, Catherine was smiling faintly; she seemed as relaxed as she had ever been since her transfer, and a completely different person from the woman who had discovered herself to be orphaned. She walked over to Robert and put her hand in his; he looked down at her and gave her an encouraging smile. "We really have to leave now," Anita then said, "I'm truly sorry." "Not your fault," replied Catherine. "Goodbye." Anita smiled sadly at the orphaned couple, then at Raymond; her reaction was only to turn and scuttle into her candle as fast as she could, like a frightened rabbit, leaving three. Anita did not follow her immediately; instead she hugged first Robert, then Catherine, whom she held for much longer while she whispered, "Be brave. You can take it from me that things will turn out all right for you in the end." She began to walk away, then stopped to look over her shoulder. "Goodbye, Robert, Catherine," she said. "Fare you well." With that she continued forwards; with a bright, purple flash she vanished. Now they really were alone, a man and woman of the fourteenth century. **** "I think I know where Bellingbrook Abbey is," Catherine said, "at least that's something that has always existed." They made off, hand in hand, Catherine leading them now, in the direction she knew the abbey to lie. Being late afternoon by the time they had set out, they had only walked for a few hours, and covered little more than fifteen miles, before they stopped for the night. Before they had left the clearing for the final time, they conducted a search of the nearby spot where Catherine had disguised herself as a boy; this revealed one more man's cloak, similar to the one she had worn on her journey to Groatswood Castle, and in their sudden flight had been forced to abandon; nothing else was of any value. The cloak Catherine had worn during the day while walking, and they now shared it to pass the night. They lay back to back, Catherine fully enclosed while Robert held the edges around them; after the long miles they had travelled, sometimes at a run, for most of that day, both were fatigued enough to expect sleep to take them quickly; that not even the despair of their plight, nor their trepidation for the future, could stop them dropping into a sound slumber. Robert lay awake, trying not to move for fear of waking Catherine, but after a while he became aware of something not quite right: she seemed to be shaking. In sudden concern, Robert turned and raised himself on one elbow to look over at her face; as soon as he did, he realised she was sobbing to herself, and trying to keep as quiet as possible to try not to disturb him. "Catherine," he whispered, and she immediately spun around to face him, putting her arm around his neck; he lowered himself and slid his arm under her head and round her shoulder: she immediately buried her face in the shelter his embrace offered. He pulled her close, held her tight; she continued to cry, but now without restraint. She was a heart-rending sight, and had drawn tears from him before her sobs began to ease, her breathing, though still erratic, slowed and steadied. She looked up at him and even in the moonlight, her eyes and face shone with tears. "I'm sorry," she murmured unsteadily, "I don't know what came over me." "I do," Robert whispered in reply, "you're frightened out of your wits. Just like me." Despite laying her fears bare before her, she found his words comforting, because they carried the reassurance that she was not alone. Catherine nodded her head, her face again hidden and he tightened his hold around her. Both let out a trembling sigh in a weak semblance of happiness, their spirits uplifted: she by the strength and protection around her; he by the feeling of her forehead rubbing timidly against his chest. Robert kissed her head and she pulled herself fully against him; he then settled down onto his back with his arm around her shoulder and she used his as her pillow. Robert pulled the cloak around both, then lay still, hoping she would sleep; presently she did, but not before he felt a few more tears soaking through to his shirt. Before long, he joined her in a blissful, but all too short, forgetfulness. They came to the next day with the sun climbing high; it was Catherine beginning to stir that woke Robert and his immediate reaction was to pull her tight and kiss her forehead; her reaction was to press her head against his. "How do you feel?" he asked gently and she returned, as in her first few moments as a woman, an expression that could have been one of two things; but while Catherine was sure it was an uncomfortable grimace, Robert saw only a brave smile. "A bit better. Not much though." "But better, at least." She smiled again and nodded. "You help." "We'll get through this together. As long as we have each other, we're strong enough to face anything life throws at us." "Even these bodies?" "Even these bodies." "That's the thing. It's not just a case of being stranded in a different time, and a society we know very little about, we're both going to have to adapt to being a different gender too." Robert took both her hands and have them as reassuring a squeeze as he could. "I'm sorry," she continued with a sob, "this is as bad for you as it is for me." "But at least I came out of it frightened and strong, instead of frightened and vulnerable." "Please take care of me, Robert. I'm panic-stricken. I have no idea what our lives are going to be like, what my life is going to be like, what it's going to be like to live a lifetime in this body." They were still holding hands; they looked steadily at each other, knowing they should drop the morose subject and continue on their journey. They stood, hugged each other for comfort (lovingly, but with no trace of a smile from either) and began to make their way along what both hoped would be the last leg. It was; shortly after noon, Bellingbrook Abbey was in sight. Just as they had found on their arrival at Groatswood Priory, they were immediately and without question made most welcome. The main meal of the day was well under way, and places were set for them quickly. Afterwards, they were interviewed by the Abbot, Father Paul, who readily agreed they would be married, although there were certain conditions he insisted upon. Catherine was removed to a nearby convent, and there she lived among the inmates, a colony of nuns, for three weeks, while Robert remained with the monks in Bellingbrook Abbey. Both were instructed in the ways of their respective communities, and taught their religious beliefs; both attended prayers and mass; meanwhile a notice was placed on the doors of both the abbey and the convent announcing that, to the glory of God, and on the 13th day of August in the year of Our Lord thirteen hundred and eighty-four, Robert of Ewhurst would marry Catherine Weaver before Bellingbrook Abbey. The day arrived: warm and sunny. Robert waited outside; the church was large and although the most frequently used entrance was the one leading directly from the monastery, there was an external door covered by a large arch. A path led from the door and at the end of the path, where it met another road, he waited in the company of six of the monks, his heart racing in excitement. Father Paul stood under the arch. Presently, Catherine was brought by her train, a gaggle of about a dozen nuns, who walked in a cluster around her. The bride was dressed in a grey robe of undyed wool, reminiscent of a nun's habit, but instead of a wimple she wore only a circlet of flowers on her head. When she joined Robert, the couple walked side by side, with Catherine on the left (to signify that God had created Eve from one of Adam's left ribs). Arriving before the waiting Abbot, they were then questioned on such things as their ages (which they had had to estimate), whether they were related, whether they consented to marry each other; Robert then took his vows. Catherine did not; this was something that rankled with her, but which she had no choice but to accept, knowing as she did the lot of a medieval woman, and having been well instructed by her companions for the past three quarters of a month: as a bride, she was not permitted a voice of her own, and her husband spoke for her. Father Paul then blessed the ring: only the bride wore a wedding ring in those times. Robert slid it onto her first three fingers in turn, reciting, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, with this ring I thee wed." The Abbot then declared that, because a woman has a vein running directly from her heart to the third finger of her left hand, by wearing her ring on that finger, she would ensure love and unity throughout their days. He turned and opened the doors of the church, ushered in the bride and groom, and directed them to kneel before the altar, where the couple survived a long mass. That night, they were finally allowed to spend time in each other's company, and to sleep in the same bed: they did not, Robert ceding it to his new wife, and she apologetically accepting his offer to sleep on the floor. The following morning, after prayers, breakfast, more prayers, then a final blessing from Father Paul upon the newly-wed couple, they set off, this time (as had been the case on their departure from Groatswood Priory almost a month previously) adequately fed, and in possession of provisions for their journey. It was a pleasant summer morning, and the couple strolled for a while, but always wary of being accosted on the road. As Catherine had done when she was travelling from the clearing to Groatswood Castle, they kept close to the trees whenever they were following the semblance of a path, in case they had to hide themselves. Robert helped Catherine all along the route, something for which she became more and more grateful as time passed. As they walked, Catherine gradually became aware of her husband's silence; he seemed to be deep in thought about something; she decided not to say anything, but instead waited for him to speak. Eventually he took a deep breath, sighed, then began to tell her what was on his mind. "Catherine," he opened, sounding unsure, "I hope you don't mind me asking, but I've been trying to calculate how long we've been here. Today is the fifteenth of August, isn't it? That means we've been here for four weeks and four days." "Yes. So what?" "So at some point, you must surely have experienced ..." He hesitated and looked uncomfortable. "Your, em, time of the month." "Oh." Catherine smiled wryly but continued to hold his hand. "I'm only asking because I want to make sure you're all right." "It happened about ten days ago. Finished three or four days before we were married." "At least you would have the nuns to help you." "Not really. They were very kind, and they gave me the towelling I needed, but how could I tell them it was my first period and I hadn't a clue what to do about it?" "How did you manage?" "With difficulty! It was a bit of a disaster, to be honest, to begin with, but I got there in the end." "I'm sorry." "Why? It's not your fault." "If it had happened while we were together, I could have helped." "Would you want to? Most men would run a mile at the mere mention of such things." "Not me. I know what it's like, remember? Any anyway, you were never like that, either. You were always fine about buying pads and tampons for me, whenever you did the shopping." "I used to think how awful it would be to have to use those things, but this time last week, I'd have killed for a tampon." "Next time, tell me, please. I really will be able to help. Remember I have first-hand experience of what you're going through, and I also know why you need things explained to you." "I'd have thought that now you're free of it, you wouldn't want to have anything to do with it, ever again." "No. I know how rough it can be." "Okay." They returned to walking in silence for a while, before Catherine remarked she was feeling a little hungry, so they stopped and made their way a little into the trees, where they found somewhere to sit. Robert unwrapped the cloth the monks had given him on their departure, to find two generous pieces of bread and some cheese. They shared one of the pieces, preferring to keep the other in case their journey took longer than expected. After a few mouthfuls of water each, they set off again. They were, in fact, closer to the end of their travels than either had thought, and within the hour, they stood before the gates of Rybourne Castle. Chapter 6. Rybourne Castle It was a rather beautiful building; far more so than Groatswood: better maintained, as was clear from its appearance; better managed, as was clear from the positioning and deportment of the guards; better funded, as was clear from the uniforms and weapons. "When we approach the castle, they'll challenge us," Catherine explained to Robert. She began to walk ahead, but he caught her by the arm. "What should I say?" Robert asked. "Because sure as we stand here, It will not go well if you, a woman, dare to speak for both of us." Catherine took it sore, but Robert was correct; she ought to adopt a subservient role. "You're right," she said, her head bowed and her jaw clenched in resentment. "I was forgetting myself. Tell them your name first, then mine. When they ask you what your business is, say you beg an audience with Edward, Duke of Rybourne. Use his full title, as they will see that as a mark of respect. Tell them you have journeyed far with council of great import." "All right." "Oh, and make sure you say, 'I have journeyed far,' not, 'We have journeyed far'. I'm not important." "Can I have that in writing?" "You won't need it, believe me. If you think you had it rough as a woman in the twenty-second century, just watch what happens to me. You ain't seen nothing yet." "It won't come from me." "I know." "What then, if I'm shown before the duke?" "You should be courteous, but even more so should you be outwardly submissive," she replied, "Because men in these times, particularly nobles, are very conceited about their position. It's something that defines the social structure of these times, and for centuries to come, unfortunately. However, if what Anita said comes true, you'll become a friend of the Duke, and then you'll be able to relax more in his company. Just be careful to begin with. Good luck." "You too." They walked towards the gate of the castle and immediately two of the guards approached to intercept them at the end of the drawbridge. They did not advance with weapons raised; they simply waited and, once the two strangers were a few yards from them, spoke their challenge. "Who goes there?" Robert, having already spoken successfully to several of the people they had thus far met, including Father Thomas Brooker and Father Paul at Bellingbrook Abbey, spoke with some confidence, but as instructed by his wife. "Robert of Ewhurst I am named," he opened, "And my wife this is, Catherine of Ewhurst." He quoted Catherine's name in full, as was the custom: had she been of higher social status than her husband, she would have retained her maiden name, which would have been of note to their future (they hoped) host. "I have journeyed through peril and fled from imprisonment, and I beg an audience with Edward, Duke of Rybourne, that I might bring council to him. I bear tidings of great import." The guards escorted Robert and Catherine into the courtyard, where they stood just inside the gate, surrounded by the duke's men, while one of their number, presumably the leader, disappeared. Presently he returned and instructed them to follow, which they did, accompanied by another three soldiers. They were led through a doorway and along a wide corridor, then into a large chamber, where sat a man of about thirty- five, with shoulder-length brown hair. He was about the right age, thought Catherine, and she also recognised the heraldic symbols embroidered on his tunic. Edward, Duke of Rybourne. "So," said he as they approached, "thou sayest thou hast tidings? Speak." Robert had bowed as soon as he stopped before the duke, while Catherine curtsied as low as she could. She remained down for several seconds after her husband had stood and begun to talk. She then waited in silence as Robert described his capture by Bemond, and his rescue, and finally their flight. The duke listened with interest and his eye fell upon Catherine many a time as the tale unfolded. He then drew laughter from those present by warning every man that he would do well to avoid crossing swords with such a beautiful temptress. Catherine curtsied again at the patronising comment, which she had no option but to pretend to take as a compliment. Finally, Robert told of the future attack on King Richard that had been described by Anita, under the pretence that Bemond and his men had spoken carelessly, and unwittingly allowed him to overhear. The duke was concerned at the news, which he took seriously and questioned him thoroughly. Finally, convinced, he thanked Robert and asked him to assist him in laying his plans. That day was the fourteenth of August, and the attack was to be the sixteenth. Until then, Robert spent most of his time with Edward and his men, planning a counter-attack on Bemond, and the delicate timing involved in allowing them to incriminate themselves, but not allowing the king to be put in undue peril. Meanwhile, Catherine was housed with some of the women of the court and saw little of her husband. The sixteenth day of August dawned, and Edward's men assembled in the courtyard; the duke himself rode at the front with Robert at his side. Catherine, her heart in her mouth, watched them leave from a window in one of the towers. **** Hour after hour passed: Catherine paced the floor, stalked the corridors, climbed again and again to the tower to search the horizon for Robert, but every time, her hoped were dashed, and every step she took was more agonising than the last. Sitting still was painfully difficult; in the same room were four or five other women: two were talking and giggling quietly, while the others sewed; Catherine was almost cowering in her chair when a cry went up from outside announcing that the king was approaching in the company of the duke. She leapt up and ran to the tower, where she watched the arriving party until she was sure she could make out the figure of her husband, then made her way to the courtyard, where she waited in the gathering crowd. Presently the clattering of hooves announced the end of the king's journey, and Catherine found herself jumping in frustration as she was forced to join in with the cries of welcome to King Richard: all this was doing, to her mind, was delaying the only thing she wanted: eventually she was able to push her way through the crowd and throw herself into Robert's arms, feeling the bliss of being gathered into a tight embrace that returned as much love as she gave. That day marked the rapid rise in the fortunes of both Edward and Robert, exactly as predicted. The few weeks that followed consisted mostly of feasting, hunting and other celebrations, and with the departure of the king, life settled down very well at Rybourne. Robert and Catherine now had their own chambers: this consisted of a large room with separate bedrooms internally adjoining; in olden days, in fact up until the nineteenth century, such was the only form of contraception available to married couples: abstinence. Robert's bedchamber was slightly larger than his wife's, but this was more than made up for by the fact she had an adjacent, and even larger, toilet (which was, in these times, a dressing-room and not a lavatory). One day, a few weeks after the departure of King Richard, Robert returned late after an expedition, to find Catherine in the process of retiring. They spoke for a few moments before she retreated to her chamber to ready herself for bed; Robert began to make his way to his own room, but then stopped in thought. Catherine had only left a minute ago, and he was aware they had not really spoken properly for days; he was beginning to fear that he was allowing their relationship to slip into one where a husband spent much of his time in the company of male friends, paying too little attention to his wife. "Robert?" Catherine said in response to a quiet tap on her door. "Is that you? Come in," she added when it was confirmed that it was indeed he. She had already undressed; her chemise lay discarded and she stood at the door of her toilet, with only her kirtle held in front of her. "Oh! My love, I'm sorry!" Robert apologised and began to back out of the room. "Nay, it's all right," she replied, "please." She walked over to the bed, slowly, then sat, after first placing her hand on her middle to hold her shield against her; she now looked up at Robert, one hand on her chest and the other on her lap. She did not seem upset at all by his presence, so he began to walk towards her. The sight truly was beautiful: although her front was completely obscured, Robert could see the slight bulge of her hips and the outside of her thighs; her skin was flawless, her side and back shapely, and her arms were as slender and delicate as her graceful neck; and her face! was enchanting. She did not flinch as she saw him approach, so he took a seat on the bed beside her and she smiled timidly at him. "I wanted to apologise," he said gently, "I guess I've been neglecting thee a bit for the past couple of weeks, and methinks, perchance you're getting fed up." Although they were beginning to assimilate into the language and customs of the age, they had always been in the habit of addressing each other in the twenty-second century dialect they were accustomed to; however as time passed, even that had begun to deteriorate into a bizarre mixture of modern and archaic. "I understand," she reassured him. "There are things we both have to do, if we're to make lives for ourselves in this place and time. I wouldn't accuse thee of neglecting me." "That is well," Robert replied, and laid his hand gently on her bare shoulder. She trembled and he quickly withdrew it, looking apologetic."I'm sorry," he said, aghast, "our plight is bad enough for me, who art a man, but having a form such as thine forced upon you is a sore trial for thee to bear. Please forgive me. The touch of a man must be repulsive to you." "Nay," she replied, "you misinterpret my feelings, sir." Both fell silent; Robert frowned, trying to work out what she meant, and trying not to raise his own hopes too far, lest they be dashed. Then she spoke again; now it was her voice that trembled. "I long to feel thy touch upon me. I long to feel thee run your hands over me, and pull me close." "Catherine ..." was all he could manage to say. "With a woman's body comes a woman's nature. I love thee, and it is my wish to be loved by thee, and to hold thee upon me." Robert stared at her, his face blank; she rose, still holding the kirtle in front of her; tentatively he stood facing her, and then, when she lifted her arms to reach for him, her garment fluttered to the floor and he took an involuntary gasp at the incredible beauty that had suddenly been revealed to him. He put his arms around her waist and with the slightest tug, she stepped forwards to stand against him and return his kiss. Catherine now began to undress Robert and, to his surprise, she easily and skilfully unfastened and removed each item. "How come thou art so good at that ... my lady?" "Forsooth, sir, verily I used to be a cross-dresser, dost thou not remember? Or hast thee ... lost your marbles?" Robert laughed. "Nay," he replied, "just my heart. It's thine until the day I die." The last thing dropped to the floor; Catherine lifted aside the bed covers; Robert lowered her gently onto the bed; she pulled the cover around them both. They lay side by side for a few moments, alternating between kissing and looking into each other's eyes; then the signal from Catherine, pulling Robert towards her, told him she wished him to turn her onto her back. As they kissed and caressed each other, she found the natural, instinctive movement of her body pulled him closer and closer, until it was not just her arms that encircled him. Robert was tender and considerate: as a former woman, he knew all too well the discomfort - sometimes even pain - that a girl often experiences the first time she makes love. In fact, so gentle was he that neither reached orgasm that night, but neither cared: the only important thing was that they had shared their love and given each other their virginity. Robert awoke first the next morning, to find Catherine lying on her side against him; it was not long until she stirred, sighed happily and smiled at him. "I love thee," was the first thing uttered by both, almost at the same time. Catherine, deep in thought, traced a pattern on his chest with her fingers before she spoke. "Thank you," she said to his surprise. "My lady?" he reacted; the archaic form of question seemed the best way to ask her what on earth she meant. "You were so gentle last night. I thought I'd be sore this morning, but I'm not." "I'm glad. I didn't want to hurt you. It can be a little uncomfortable." "You had to go through that twice, didn't you? I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?" "Not hurt, exactly. It was a little sore, but just a little, because you were gentle with me, too. Anyhow, that's normal; it happens to every woman, and how could you, a man, possibly have known?" "Well, I'm not a man any more, so I guess you're safe now. I won't be doing that to you again." "Do you resent what has happened to us? To thee?" "Nay," she replied, beginning to slip back into the dialect that matched their situation, "I am content; I am happy to be a woman and to be thy lover." Robert pulled her close and they embraced where they lay, enjoying the comfort of each other's bodies; but Catherine was still deep in thought. Then she resumed. "But that doth not mean I envy thee not," she said quietly; she felt the movement of his head turning to look at her. "What sayest thee?" "I am content inasmuch as I am resigned to my lot in life; and whilst I envy not thy strength or thy manhood, I envy thee thy privilege as a man. Thou are free to ride, to hunt, to walk and run as thou wilt. I remain within this place, trapped by these walls, the prisoner of my bower. Thou mayst come and go as pleases thee, whilst here wait I. Waiting for my lord's return; waiting for him to bestow his favour upon me; waiting for my belly to begin to swell. "And thus, even though I say I am content, there exists a thought at the back of my mind that I share will all women of this age: in secret I do wish, that I had been fortunate enough to be a man." **** Robert did not forget Catherine's discourse; immediately he began to make the arrangements he needed to alleviate her feelings of imprisonment, and not many days after he had learnt of her fears, he had a welcome surprise for her. Alison had been a good horsewoman, and Robert was no lesser a horseman; he began to teach Catherine to ride, and she was an avid learner, not the least because she could then see some light at the end of the tunnel she had been losing herself in. Both her garb and the social norm dictated that she must ride side-saddle; such saddles of the day were primitive and impractical, giving the rider poor control over the horse, but Catherine did not care, and was more than content with the gentle canter that was the limit of her ability. As her skill grew, Robert began to take them further afield, into a nearby forest, where they came across a lake; he knew of its existence, and deliberately led them to it. Unbeknown to his wife, he had arranged with the men that patrolled the land near the castle, that they would circumvent this part of the forest and not come to the lakeside; but to Catherine, they were embarking on an adventure, bold and with a hint of danger, alone together in the woods. Their visits to the lake were numerous, and became more frequent as time passed. There they would undress and swim together; she playfully pretending to escape from him, he capturing her, their bodies often brushing against each other. Then they would make love, he standing in the water at shoulder height, she clinging to him, her limbs wrapped around him like a gentle and beautiful spider, tenderly and lovingly devouring her prey. After, they would swim together some more, but now her escape would be much less eager, his capture of her much less difficult, the brushing together of their bodies much more frequent. Finally, tired and contented, they would lie together on the grassy bank of the lake, and there they would make love again, while they waited for their bodies to dry. In time, Catherine's belly did indeed begin to swell, which put an end to their adventures together for a time, until she had given birth to their first-born child, a daughter, whom they named Catherine. She bore him five children in all, and in later years she would often muse whether all of their offspring might have been conceived in the lake in Rybourne Forest, or on its banks. Their second, a son, they named Robert according to custom; their third and fourth were also girls: Robert was loath to name their second daughter Alison, thinking it to be anachronistic, but Catherine assured him it was a medieval Norman name, a diminutive form of Alice; their third they called Margaret, after Catherine's (or, rather, Richard's) mother. When their fifth child, and second son, was born, his name was waiting for him, having been decided some years earlier; proud though he was to be namesake of the King of England, he journeyed from cradle to grave unknowing of the fact that he, Richard of Ewhurst, bore his mother's name. Robert and Richard grew to be strong, healthy boys; Catherine, Alison and Margaret were not only beautiful, but bright and intelligent, and Catherine, their mother, taught them well. This was, in fact, the cause of a painful conversation that took place between Robert and Catherine one evening, at his behest: firmly, but sadly, and she could see how much it hurt him to say the things he did, he laid bare the unhappy truth before her. Catherine was proud of her three daughters; she had spent many hours on their education, and was delighted with their response, but as they talked she found herself becoming more and more despondent; because she recognised and knew everything Robert was saying to be right. It was rare for women to be educated in these times, unusual and dangerous: a woman who questions a man would be punished for her insolence; a woman who shows spirit would have it beaten out of her; a woman who proves herself to know better than her superiors could be falsely accused of witchcraft out of spite. The very next day Catherine began the heartbreaking task of undoing all her good work: often with tears in her eyes, she taught each of her daughters to be deferential, to accept and obey, to question nothing, to hold no opinion of her own, except that belonging to her father, brother or husband. How many centuries would have to pass before the arrival of those heady Victorian days where Jane Austin's early feminist classic, telling of a strong and principled woman, and written far ahead of its time, would find posthumous success unbeknown to its author; and when Charlotte Bronte would write, "Conventionality is not morality;" how many generations of women would live and die in hopeless servitude before the first green shoots of women's suffrage would bravely push their heads through hitherto barren soil? Charlotte Bronte also wrote, "But women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do;" however exercise of faculty and a field of effort was something that would be denied the three bright young things that Catherine was wilfully dulling. She herself was fortunate to have Robert: a man who covertly regarded her as his equal, but their three daughters would grow up to have brothers and husbands who would punish or beat them, if, as Bronte also wrote, in that same paragraph, "They seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex." **** "My love," Robert said, Making Catherine jump slightly; she had been lost in thought. He looked over her shoulder and she leant back, openly inviting him to look at her work. He frowned as he perused the page before them: although she had read and written frequently over the past few years, he had not; and as a result his ability to read was growing rusty, and he now rather struggled, especially with the modern English she was using. "What is this?" he enquired gently; it was a question with no challenge in it. "Dost thee recall the day we became Robert and Catherine till the day we die?" "I do." "And dost thee recall also that Dr. Harvey betook me aside in the forest that day?" "I do, and ever since have I wondered, of what did ye speak?" "She told me of the journal that I now write. She hath said it shall be a work of great import: I am recounting the life of our people; of our habits, our customs, and of our fears, of hope and of belief. I write of places, of people, of garments and of tools. "Thou knowest thyself of the many things we have found to be true of the times in which we now live: customs and deeds of which we knew nothing in our own time: things that were lost to us: now lost no more. "She told of the day when my work she hath given to our friend: knowest thee still the woman Hannah, who hath the name Nicholson?" "I know her not, though of her I have heard thee speak." "She is learned in history, as I. She is filled with wonder when readeth she these papers, and joy and knowledge beyond her dreams it giveth, to her and to those of her time." "Then it is well." "I have a boon to ask of thee." "Thou needst only ask." "My writings must be in secret: I tell of things of our time, but I use words and speak of objects that belong not in our time. This canst not be found until the day Anita taketh it from my tomb." "Thy tomb?" "I shall be taken before thee, my love. Nay! Do not grieve so! Our lives will be long and happy. But when my body thou entomb, seal with me these papers, as we once did in the priory at Groatswood." Robert slid onto the seat beside her, gently pushing her aside so that they shared it. He put his arms around her and pulled her close, kissing her lovingly as they had done so many times over the years: however it was something of which neither had tired, nor ever would they. His words carried a double meaning: they spoke both of his love for her, and of his promise to grant her wish. "I plight thee my troth." Chapter 7. Nine Hundred Years Later Rybourne Castle was very well-preserved; one of the best examples of medieval architecture surviving today. Dr. Anita Harvey stood in the crypt beside one of the tombs, in the company of four of her colleagues and one police officer, who was present to supervise and ensure the legality of the operation. Dr. Harvey handed the exhumation order to the officer, who studied it briefly before examining the adjacent tomb. "This is correct," she confirmed, nodding, and handed the order back to Anita. "You may proceed." Dr. Harvey turned to her companions; "Okay," she said, "Let's open it, but be careful please, and respectful. Remember she was a friend of ours." Then, barely audibly, to herself, added, "She gave me a bottle of Armagnac for my fortieth birthday." The lid of the tomb was eased upwards and onto the prongs of a hoist; it was then moved carefully away. Anita gazed into the interior with a melancholy sadness; the figure inside was completely unrecognisable as the wonderfully beautiful woman she had spoken to, not many months ago, in the clearing in the forest: her shroud had partly disintegrated, revealing enough of her skeleton to show that it had all but crumbled, and there was no hair remaining. However, her right arm had not been enclosed in her winding sheet: it was at her side and, from what could still be discerned of it, seemed to be turned upright, holding a linen wrapping, as if waiting for Anita to come so that she could present her with it. "Oh, Catherine, I'm so sorry," she whispered as she accepted her friend's gift, lifting it from her hand as carefully as she could, to avoid disturbing her; there were tears in her eyes as she did so and she wiped them from her cheeks with the heel and the back of her hand. **** "Oh, my God!" Hannah Nicholson exclaimed, poring over the delicate sheets of paper on the table; her white cotton gloves shook with excitement. "Do you like it?" Dr. Harvey, standing beside her, asked. "Do I? This is incredible! The detail, and the insight into life in the middle ages is beyond anything I've ever seen before. This is one of the most important historical documents in existence. In fact, rewind that. This is the most important document of its type in existence. It's going to give us an almost complete knowledge of medieval Britain in so many areas of life, family and work." She leant back as she continued to read, afraid that a tear might fall onto one of the pages. "Oh, Catherine," she whispered. "Oh, Richard, I love you so much. This must have been her life's work" "It was: that and her children," Anita explained. "In fact there's a long section later on about the upbringing and education of her three daughters, but I'm afraid it doesn't make very pleasant reading. It's quite clear how frustrated and angry she was about the way she was forced to raise them." Dr. Harvey turned and left, giving Hannah peace to continue studying the Diary of Catherine of Ewhurst, as it would come to be known. She sat down in her own office, deep in thought, remembering the day she had encouraged Catherine to write. Although she had at the time told a white lie, it had not only served its purpose in giving the poor woman a purpose in life, a reason to raise herself from the pit of depression into which she was in danger of sinking; it had also turned into a self- fulfilling prophecy. She had told Catherine that Hannah was thrilled at the knowledge she had imparted in her writing, but that had not been the case at the time: the Diary of Catherine Ewhurst had not come into existence until Anita had told her lie. **** One week later, Anita returned to Rybourne. She held in her hand two flowers: both red, both roses; the first she placed on on the coffin that was marked with the name Robert. Then, with tears pricking the backs of her eyes, the second red rose she gently and respectfully laid upon the tomb that held the remains of Catherine of Ewhurst.