Time After Time

It was half way through the next morning and already Kate had run out of things to do. Back home she was never bored. She could pop to the library, or to her gran’s flat, where there were always plenty of interesting books to read. Here, there were no books at all. She spent an hour watching the servants working. Some were washing clothes, an arduous task which took hours without a washing machine. Others prepared food or made clothes. She looked out for Lizzie or James but there was no sign of either.

The most productive thing Kate could do was to explore the grounds of the house and the tiny village nearby. The blacksmith’s house was now a stinking black ruin, picked over by a gang of grubby children. Kate watched the children playing. They were happy. They were no different to children of the 1980s, despite the appalling circumstances of their lives.

A sense of paralysing loneliness hit Kate. What was she doing here? If she could not return home, she may never see her family again. What would her mum think? She would disappear off the face of the earth.

When she was ten years old, and on a holiday in Turkey, Kate and her parents took a coach trip to a market. Her mum had engaged in a ferocious bout of haggling over the price of a sarong. Embarrassed, Kate wandered to the next stall, which sold jewelry. She spent a few minutes trying on some rings. When she looked back, her mum was gone. She recalled now the way her stomach had lurched, and the overwhelming sense of panic. Lost in the market for an hour, she drifted through the stalls, in a haze filled with the scent of spices and the loud chatter of the traders. She asked a man for directions to the coach park. When she spotted the coach and her mum waving her arms at the driver, Kate almost cried for the first time.

“Do you know James?” Kate shouted to the boys climbing on the remains of the house. “His mother Lizzie works at the hall.”

The children paused and stared at her. She walked closer.

“He’s skinny,” she said.

It was a pointless description. They were all skinny.

They exchanged a wordless glance. The bravest of them, a tall lad with thick dark hair, sunken cheeks and huge eyes approached Kate. A rotten stench overwhelmed Kate as he drew closer. He stood inches away, unsmiling. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said.

Kate was certain this child could read her mind. He knew everything. He gazed deep into Kate’s eyes. A moment later, he turned and ran laughing back to his friends.

Kate walked back to the house shaken, but by the time she got there, she had already told herself not to be silly. The loneliness and strangeness of this place were playing tricks on her mind. It was natural under the circumstances, but she needed to get a grip. Her twentieth century knowledge could be useful in this ignorant and superstitious era. She spotted Lizzie sewing in a dark corner of the hall and walked over to her.

“Hello Lizzie.”

The young woman continued to sew, as though she was unaware of Kate’s presence. Kate wondered why they all shunned her. First the boy outside and now Lizzie.

“Do you know where James is?”

Lizzie continued to ignore Kate. Her needlework grew more difficult as her hands shook.

“Lizzie?” Kate noticed the woman’s hands were bleeding.

Kate ran across the hall, and up the stairs. She hammered on the door of Mabel’s room. Mabel was speaking in hushed voices with a man Kate recognised from Lancaster’s visit.

“There’s something wrong with Lizzie,” said Kate. “Can you come and see her?”

Mabel handed the man a scroll and followed Kate.

They hurried back to the hall. Mabel crouched in front of her servant.

“Now Lizzie, what is the matter with you?”

Lizzie did not answer and continued with her work. Mabel grabbed Lizzie’s hands and held them flat. Tiny bleeding wounds covered them.

“What on earth is it child?”

“I asked her where James was and she became agitated,” said Kate.

Mabel grabbed Lizzie by the arms, and shook her. “Lizzie, look at me. Where is James?”

Lizzie was shaking. She did not answer.

“What have you done?”

Mabel stood and clapped her hands for attention. Everyone in the hall stopped and gathered around Mabel.

“Lizzie’s son James is missing,” she announced her voice firm. “I want you all out searching the woods. Find him.”

Only a few hours had passed since the rebel army had returned to the camp. The rain slackened to a drizzle as they prepared to leave again. Banastre had made an abrupt change of plans. They were to retrace their steps, and attack Norley Hall.

“We’ll capture the slimy toe-rag Thurstan,” said their leader. “Norley may be a mere pawn of Lancaster’s but he occupies an important strategic position. If we take this pawn, it leaves the bishop unprotected, the old hypocrite Holland. The Borough will be ours. We will be in a better position to mount a successful attack on Lancaster.”

“Something strange is going on,” said Tom. “We’re heading back the way we came.”

“Changing direction is your idea of strange? Medieval wizards stabbing voodoo dolls and speaking in twentieth century English is what I call strange.”

“How did he know about us?”

“Who knows? I don’t trust this lot Tom. We could be better heading to Lancaster ourselves.”

“What do we do when we get there? Knock on the door of Lancaster’s castle and ask if I can have my sister back? If Lancaster has her, the only hope is to be part of a strong group. How would we even get to Lancaster. I’ve been through it on the train but that’s no help in the fourteenth century. Do you even know which way is North?”

Pete pointed in the direction of the nearest path.

“That’s East,” said Tom.

Pete tried again, pointing south this time.

“Have you ever even seen a compass?”

An hour later, the men were ransacking Norley Hall, a house like the Bradshaw’s. They emptied the house of everything. They drove oxen and cows from the outhouses, and cleared the vegetable garden and apple orchard. Norley and his wife were not there.

“It looks like they had advanced warning,” said Henry.

“There must be spies in our ranks,” agreed William.

“There are some in our company, of whom we know little.”

He glanced at Tom and Pete, turned away and spat on the floor.

“We should take a little care of what we say and who might overhear,” said Henry.