Winds of Time Read Free Page A

better. Then it came
again, the distinct sound of a child weeping. I got to my feet,
took a few steps into the center of the room, and then thought
better of it. Instead of shouldering my pack, I stuffed it behind a
fallen rock and took a moment to layer several smaller ones over
it. It was the best I could do in the dark. I didn’t want to risk a
medieval person coming across it by mistake.
    I hurried from the room, following the
child’s sounds and arrived in the main courtyard of the fort. The
moon had risen while I’d slept, illuminating the stones. A young
boy huddled with his back to the wall by the door.
    I stopped short at the sight of him, truly
stunned. What on earth could a child be doing here in the middle of
the night? I glanced towards the room that held the altar, but no
light appeared inside it and it seemed the boy was alone. He looked
up as I approached and held out both hands as if to push me away.
“Don’t hurt me!”
    I stopped again. For all that I’d been
working with medieval English (and medieval Welsh, of course) for
the last ten years, it took me a second to register what he’d said
and to orient my thoughts so that my words would come out
right.
    “ It’s all right,” I said. “I
won’t harm you.”
    “ Are you a
ghost?”
    So that’s what he was thinking. Most
medieval people avoided the Roman ruins because spirits might haunt
them. “I am no spirit. Just a traveler like you.”
    “ I’m not a traveler,” the
boy said, gaining courage. “I’m a squire!”
    I closed the distance between us and
crouched in front of him. The shadow of the wall obscured his face,
but from his size, I guessed he was ten or twelve years old.
    “ You are young for such a
big job,” I said. “How did you end up here?”
    “ The Scots.” The boy spat on
the ground. “I rode out of Carlisle with one of my uncle’s
companies and we ran into—” The boy swallowed hard, unable to
finish his sentence.
    I touched his hand and was glad when he
turned his palm face-up and allowed me to grasp it. “Did any of
your uncle’s men survive?”
    The boy shook his head.
    “ Where are they now, the
Scots I mean?”
    “ Riding north—or they were,”
the boy said. “They didn’t tie my feet and I slipped off the back
of the pack horse they’d thrown me over. This was before the moon
was up. I ran here. I didn’t see anyone follow.”
    “ So they captured you? Only
you?” I said.
    He nodded. They’d wanted him for ransom,
probably, recognizing the fine cut of his cloth and that he wore
mail armor, even though he was just a boy. I was surprised the
Scots had ridden this far south, and even more surprised his uncle
hadn’t ridden with him.
    “ What is your
name?”
    “ Thomas Hartley. My uncle is
Sir John de Falkes. He crusaded with King Edward and now guards his
northern border against the Scots.”
    I caught my breath, my heart
pounding . I was close, so close! It could
be 1284, it really could! Hysterical
laughter rose in my throat. I bent my head forward, glad that
Thomas couldn’t see my face any more than I could see his. He
coughed under his breath but didn’t comment. Maybe he thought I was
crying.
    Relieved that the boy wasn’t in immediate
danger, I cleared my throat. “Give me a moment. I need to gather my
things. Then we’ll start walking again. We need to get you to your
uncle.”
    I left him by the front door and ran back to
the side room, pulled out my pack, and once again dumped the
contents on the ground. I pawed through them for anything small
enough to fit into the pockets of the jacket I wore, which
fortunately had inner as well as outer pockets.
    The first aid kit went in first, followed by
the ibuprofen, my nail clippers, safety pins, and two maxi-pads. I
looked longingly at the socks, but put them back in the pack. The
unusual clothing I wore was bad enough without adding to it.
    Since I was going to be female from now on,
I dropped the hat in the pack. I hurriedly combed