 
### Lord Protector

### Clayton Spann

Copyright 2003 Clayton Spann

Smashwords Edition

Discover others titles by Clayton Spann at Smashwords.com:

Exchange Rate

The Line of Eyes

Restorer of the World*

Expelled*

The Taking of FLOTUS

*Roger Ward Trilogy

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons (except for historical figures), living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For Mom and Dad

Line of Succession of English Monarchs in 15th Century

Richard II

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deposed by

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first cousin Henry IV (L)

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sired

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Henry V (L) married Katherine of Valois (later married Owen Tudor)

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sired

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Henry VI (L)

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deposed by

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distant cousin Edward IV (Y) married Elizabeth Wydville

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sired

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**Edward V** (Y)

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deposed by

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his uncle Richard III (brother of Edward IV)

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deposed by

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**Henry VII** (L-T) married Elizabeth of York (daughter of Edward IV)

L – Lancaster, Y – York, T – Tudor

Mini Genealogies

Owen Tudor married Katherine of Valois in 1430 (widow of Henry V)

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Edmond Tudor married **Margaret Beaufort** (L) in 1456

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**Henry VII** married Elizabeth of York (daughter of Edward IV) in 1486

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Arthur and Henry VIII

Edward IV married Elizabeth Wydville in 1464

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**Edward V** and **Richard** (Princes in the Tower), and Elizabeth of York

Battles of the Wars of the Roses

Saint Albans – 1455 (Y)

Wakefield – 1460 (L)

Mortimer's Cross - 1461 (Y)

Saint Albans – 1461 (L)

**Towton Moor** – 1461 (Y)

Barnet – 1471 (Y)

Tewkesbury – 1471 (Y)

**Bosworth Market** – 1485 (L-T)

Stoke – 1487 (L-T)

Prologue

Coldharbour House

Trinity Sunday, 1498

Margaret Beaufort awoke with the first light of dawn. She was exhausted. During the short night she had slept poorly, and more than summer heat caused her to toss and turn. Anguish kept her rolling on the mattress.

She wondered why. She had gone to bed without worry.

Margaret lifted her short, slight frame from the canopied bed and crossed to the chamber window. From her fifth story perch she gazed down on the Thames. Swans and morning mists drifted over the quiet water.

Despite the serenity her foreboding grew. She began to tremble and her breathing labored. Something horrible was about to happen to Tudor, she knew it.

But that was impossible.

Henry still had eleven years of life left. Arthur had four, and wretched Harry forty-nine. If they lived out those years—and the Lord promised they would—calamity could not befall Tudor. The glory due England was secure.

By now the sky had lit considerably. To the east she could see pale blue above the orange glow at the horizon. She swung her head to the west.

Margaret wished she had not. For in the west—toward Wales—malignant black clouds towered. She stared agape at the dark evil that soared to the heavens.

### Part One

### Seek and Ye Shall Find

Chapter 1

**R** oger Ward reluctantly stuck his spoon into the brown mess on his trencher. He was hungry, of course, in fact starving. But these people spiced the hell out of everything. Yesterday he had eaten pottage laced with cumin and his bowels still hadn't recovered.

About him in the Great Hall the several score of fellow dinners did not share his qualms. They shoveled the goop into their mouths with gusto. Amid much boisterous conversation they chased it with ale from shared mazers.

Ward cautiously lifted a spoonful to his mouth. He quite incautiously spit it out. He almost howled. What were they serving, chopped leather soaked in ginger?

His table mates regarded him sourly. The fellow directly across addressed Ward. The blond haired, pock faced man wore the shell badge of a pilgrim on his sleeve. Totally non-pious sentiments issued from his lips.

"Are you lackwit? Only a cur would so insult Sir Rhys."

The pilgrim's eyes swung to the high table, where before a gaudy arras Rhys ap Thomas and his family sat with three clerics. The superbly attired knight banneret was eating the course with relish.

Ward strained to understand the pilgrim. Ward had twenty-five years of experience reading Middle English, but only three days of hearing it.

Again Ward silently repeated: you will get used to their speech. To the speech, the food, the privies, everything.

Normally Ward told someone with that tone to shove it. Before starting this quest, though, he had counseled himself to keep a cool head. He could and would not blow this miraculous opportunity.

Still, he wouldn't have minded giving the lout a squirt from his canister of pepper spray.

The canister remained in his purse and he forced a meek smile. "I pray pardon. Something caught in my throat."

The man grunted and nodded, while the others at the table cocked their ears. Ward knew they had never heard an accent like his.

"Are you an Easterling?" asked the foul smelling, shovel jawed man beside Ward. He inquired without hostility though Ward knew most Englishmen distrusted anyone from the Hanse.

"Nay. I am from Lithuania." Ward doubted that more than ten people in England had set eyes on a Lithuanian. Claiming such nationality should provide unassailable cover.

"Where is that?"

"Beyond the Hanse. Near Poland."

"By Saint Paul, that is far."

A voice boomed near the high table. A man in the livery colors of Sir Rhys, probably the manor steward, stood with goblet raised.

"All hail our right trusty and honorable Master Thomas. May God prosper him and his heirs."

The hall rose and cheered. The graying veteran of the battles of Bosworth and Stoke beamed.

Right trusty, my ass, thought Ward. Rhys ap Thomas had sworn allegiance to Richard III then sold him out the moment Henry Tudor landed at Milford Haven.

A voice from the rear shouted, "All hail our glorious sovereign, King Henry the Seventh! May the saints preserve him. Death to all pretenders! Death to Warbeck!"

Now Sir Rhys rose, rather hastily, to join the toast. Blood lust roars swept the Great Hall. Mazers drained and servants hurried with flagons to pour more ale. Ward knew elsewhere in the kingdom Henry would not be so loudly acclaimed. But this manor lay in Wales.

Finally everyone sat down. Sweat streaked the faces of Ward's table mates. Ward came from a steamy summer climate, so he could shrug off the heat that had greeted him since stepping into this June. And he wore cotton. The natives however must be dying in their garments of linen and russet. Of course everyone suffered, himself included, in the pageboy hairdos that covered heads like unwanted hoods.

The pilgrim snarled. "They'll have Warbeck's guts this time."

"The King was too merciful," said another. "He should have hung him at Exeter."

Ward sorely wanted to debate the matter of Henry Tudor's mercy. While Henry refrained from physical cruelty, he savaged men financially. England had never seen a worse bloodsucker. Instead Ward asked, "This Warbeck claims he is one of the Princes?"

The pilgrim spat. "He is bastard born of a Flemish whore. After the King burns his guts, let the devil burn the rest of him."

"In my land it is said the Princes were never found."

"The crouchback murdered them. And hid the bodies."

"Poor babes," sighed another.

"I saw young Edward when he entered London," said another. "With the crouchback and Buckingham at his side, like two hungry mastiffs. He was the fairest, noblest lad I ever saw. Jesu, he should still reign."

The others at the table looked uneasy. The man quickly amended his words. "God bless King Henry. I meant if the crouchback had remained loyal, Edward V would yet live. He was only twelve that day."

Ward framed his next question carefully. His alien status—and supposed ignorance—would help shield him, but he was about to broach the most sensitive subject in the kingdom.

"Could the Princes still be alive? Many in my land think it possible."

"They are dead," said the shovel jawed man beside him. "Buried in the Tower."

"Then why has not your great and noble king found the bones? He has had possession of the Tower thirteen years."

Wary eyes crawled over him. But he pressed on. "Many in my land wonder on this."

"They should wonder on something else," said shovel jaw.

Ward warned himself to stop. But he couldn't. Here sat people who had actually seen Edward V, had lived through Richard's usurpation and Henry's usurpation in turn. They held a trove of information.

"Good fellows, I am merely curious and intend no harm. What we do not understand is why your great king does not dig up the entire Tower grounds, ten yards deep if necessary. With the Princes' bones in hand he could deter all pretenders. His throne would be safe."

The silence about the table amplified the festive noise everywhere else in the Hall. Men drank and laughed, the minstrels in the gallery continued to play lute and shawm, and sweating servants carried new dishes from the kitchen.

"Sir, are you for London?" asked shovel jaw.

"Aye," said Ward.

"Then let me counsel you. Ask such questions about the City and you will find yourself lodged in Newgate jail—or worse."

Ward's throat constricted. "Friend, I mean no harm."

"Doubtless. We at this table are brothers of the road. But the King's men are brothers to no one. They will arrest any man, from whatever land, who besmirches the judgement of the King."

"I understand. I give thanks for your warning." When Ward arrived in London, he would heed shovel jaw. He definitely did not want to draw the attention of Henry Tudor.

With luck he should finish his inquiry in a month. He might not completely solve the greatest mystery of the past five hundred years, but he should uncover enough new evidence to put him firmly on the road to rehabilitation.

"King Henry has brought the land peace," said shovel jaw. "The kings before him brought strife and death. My father and grandfather fought for York, but I accept the victory of Lancaster."

"Aye," said the others.

"Aye," said Ward.

Ward drank more of the thick, sweet ale and his mood lightened. The ale carried a kick. He tried the new dish that had been slapped onto his trencher and found this offering—perhaps mutton in almond milk—more palatable. His hunger soon cleared the trencher.

After his fourth mazer of ale Ward relaxed completely. He laughed at the pilgrim's bawdy tale about a village wench, winked as shovel jaw recommended a house of stews in Southwark, and in turn Ward regaled with fiction about the insatiable lust of Lithuanian women.

Everyone at the table was sweating freely, but no one seemed to mind. Ward felt another warmth, one long gone from his life: a sense of community.

Eventually Rhys ap Thomas and his family departed to their private chambers. Servants broke down the trestle tables and lined benches along the stone walls. Some men lay on benches to sleep, while others flopped on the softer rushes of the floor. Ward had spotted mice in the rushes, not to mention roaches, so he quickly claimed a bench.

The bench was hard. But the ale and a day's ride on a contrary horse would assure he fell asleep even on a bed of nails. As he stretched out shovel jaw came over to ask if Ward wanted to join the others in dicing.

Ward thanked him profusely, but declined. He lay on his side with face inches from the wall. He touched the stones and found them pleasantly cool. Then, in his last conscious act before the onrush of sleep, he reached beneath his damp shirt to check that his laden money belt remained secure.

**R** oad dust caked Ward's face. His butt ached, though for several hours he had walked rather than ridden. His tongue was flannel, his stomach rumbled, and his unwashed body itched all over. But he smiled.

London was near.

He could not yet see the City. His fellow travelers promised it lay just beyond the next few hills. Through the years he had often imagined medieval London spread before him. Soon he need imagine no more.

Behind him he heard the mother singing softly to her daughter. Ward turned to see both sagging atop his mount. Beside Ward the husband kept up a cheerful banter, though fatigue of the long day's walk told in his shuffling feet.

Earlier Ward gained the man's favor, and that of the other travelers, when he bade the wife and child to ride his horse. On this hot day he would much prefer to be in the saddle. Here however he was the stranger in a strange land and he needed to incur goodwill at every opportunity.

This morning he had left lodgings at an abbey with a dozen others making for London. All except Ward were without horse. On his own Ward could have reached London hours ago, but he once again he quelled his fever to race to the city.

Whatever acclaim awaited him for his discoveries concerning the Princes, he was still first and foremost a professional historian. He owed it to posterity to interact as much as possible with the commons of England. These people had remained largely mute to history. Now, associating with them in the flesh for a mere nine days, he had accumulated more information than existed in all the archives of the world.

Over his right shoulder the sun hovered just above the tree line. It would be nip and tuck whether they reached the City gates by sunset. The husband assured Ward that they would get there before the gates closed. He also offered to put in a good word for Ward at the inn on Lawrence Lane where he knew the proprietor. Ward was glad he had won the man's favor, for lodging would not be easy to come by this side of the river.

Good thing for him the man had not caught his wife casting Ward beguiling glances when the group paused at noon in a roadside clearing. As the group shared cheese and hard-boiled eggs her eyes had said it was a shame the two of them couldn't slip into the bushes. The woman wasn't bad looking but Ward kept his own eyes neutral.

He had always turned women's heads. He wondered why, because he thought his jaw too heavy, his cheekbones too sharp, and he swore his bushy black eyebrows made him look sinister. No, he didn't consider himself particularly attractive. But women did, those inscrutable creatures, and they were the ones who counted.

On both sides of the dirt road the Middlesex forest pressed close. During the past days Ward had seen more of woods and heath than field. Villages were intermittent and market towns few. He knew he was seeing the legacy of a century and a half of recurrent plague, plague that had halved England's population.

His thighs strained as the travelers climbed what the husband pledged was the last hill. Ward had trained hard to build endurance before entering this England. Thankfully so, as a week and a half in these primitive conditions had drained him. He wondered how these people survived a lifetime of it. Of course, to them a normal lifetime meant five decades or less.

Slightly out of breath, Ward reached the crest. When he lifted his head the remaining air fled his lungs. Two miles away stood a walled city. Spires, towers, battlements rose above a myriad of roofs and tree tops. The city spread along the banks of a broad river, over which reached a bridge lined with houses. From all directions roads converged on the city, roads that were thick with people, horses, and carts.

A hand slapped his back. The husband grinned. "When I first stood here I was like you. Is it not passing wondrous?"

Ward nodded. If he were alone he would have sunk to his knees. Or run about shrieking joy.

He celebrated silently. When he first spoke with Donald Jeffress, Ward did not believe. But the quadriplegic had spoken truthfully. Now, after so many years of ridicule and rejection, redemption was close at hand.

Tomorrow he would seek out William Slaughter. Ward knew not whether Black Will still lived in the City, or lived at all. But striding now toward this jewel of England Ward sensed he would find the man. And upon finding the man Ward would begin to unravel the mystery that had for half a millennium so intrigued and so confounded.

**W** ard stepped from the Blossom Inn into morning air alive with the ringing of church bells. Last evening the bells had struck together to mark curfew. Now they separately tolled, pealed, chimed. Ward found the melodious cacophony uplifting.

With head held high he started south on the narrow confines of Lawrence Lane. He did not inspect the grimy cobblestones, and three brisk strides later his buskin squished into a fresh lump of horse manure. A beak nosed fellow going in the opposite direction laughed heartily.

Ward glared. He wanted to shove the horseshit in that toothless hole the lout called a mouth. But the dagger at the man's waist checked Ward. He forced himself on.

The lane grew more crowded as he neared West Cheap, and darker. The upper stories of houses overhung the lane. Gables at the top faced less than a yard apart, and above the gables he saw only a slit of sky.

Amid the press of people Ward's nostrils recoiled. He had thought himself adjusting to the reek of the populace, but the warm and humid air merely amplified their body odor. One particularly offensive passerby left him reeling.

Worse than the assaulting stench were the clutching apprentices that lay in wait outside shops. His attire today marked him as a man of means, and each 'prentice was determined that Ward buy his master's wares. Ward nearly decked one lad who kept a death grip on his satin sleeve.

But he wasn't abroad in London this summer morning to punch out adolescents. He pulled a half crown from his purse and held the silver coin before the pockmarked youth.

"'Tis yours, friend. If you can tell me where lodges Will Slaughter."

The 'prentice's grip slackened as he eyed the coin, a coin that would keep him in good wine for a month.

"Some know him as Black Will," Ward added.

With a scowl the apprentice shook his head. The boy turned to another prospective buyer.

Ward watched his footing as he trod away. In the dim light he saw the cobblestones ahead were wet. They smelled of urine, urine likely tossed from a chamber pot.

With relief Ward reached West Cheap. Sunlight poured into the far wider thoroughfare. People were also packed tightly here, but he no longer felt hemmed in.

He had entered the poultry section of West Cheap. Dead rabbits and fowl hung before shop fronts, and scores of flies crawled over the carcasses. 'Prentices waited here, too, bawling the sale of the day. The reek of ripening meat overpowered the stench of everything else.

Yet he forgot the sickening smells as his eyes swept the thoroughfare. The sunlight illuminated a riot of color. No subtle hues for this London. Shops and signs, gowns and doublets, banners and crests blazed red, blue, yellow, green, orange, gold.

Ward shouldered to the center of the street, where he hoped the apprentices would not follow. Amid the flood of leather lunged humanity, he discovered he could see over most heads. He savored his transformation from a man of average height to one of the tall.

The tumult of West Cheap had muffled the clang of church bells. But one bell still boomed undiminished. His eyes lifted to catch the great steeple of Saint Paul's, which projected even above the fourth story of nearby buildings. Ward smiled in anticipation of standing face to face with the magnificent cathedral that stood no more.

Ward dodged many a cart, horse, and 'prentice as he made his way towards Saint Paul's. Several times he did allow apprentices to stop him, and each time he offered to trade his coin for word of Black Will. To their and his sorrow, they knew nothing of this man who was among the last to see the Princes in the Tower. And who had disappeared from the record books fifteen years ago.

One especially disappointed youth, misconstruing Ward's accent, snarled "Easterling dog" after him.

The 'prentices about the gold and silversmith shops were better mannered, but no wiser concerning William Slaughter. Ward tarried before several shops to gape at the glittering wares within: goblets, plate, salt cellars, candlestick holders. The exquisitely crafted pieces tempted his purse. Any would fetch five hundred times the price when he returned to the other side.

He moved on and shortly entered the walled courtyard of Saint Paul's. The yard swarmed with people of all station. Ward watched fascinated as here on the most holy ground of London raw secularism proceeded without hinder or censor. He overheard a lawyer conferring with a client, a draper negotiating for cloth, and a steward seeking laborers. Other citizens browsed goods at the stalls that lined the courtyard wall.

Ward roamed the grounds. In the cool shadows of the massive cathedral he asked citizen after citizen for word of William Slaughter. He told each he carried good news for Black Will, that a distant relative—dying childless—had left Slaughter an estate in Devonshire. Ward again offered the coin worth two shillings and six pence, and again received shaken heads.

Ward shrugged off disappointment. He had queried less than a hundred of the populace. Today, tomorrow, or the next, he would encounter someone who knew the man. Just keep asking.

He supposed tracking down a man was little different from locating an obscure document. The hunt required both ingenuity and patience. He would no more let a mass of people defeat him than would a mass of paper in dusty archives. Whatever fault critics found with his interpretations of history, no one could deny the energy and persistence he brought to ferreting out the sources upon which they were based.

The sun had climbed into another cloudless sky. As shadows shrank about Saint Paul's, heat was creeping into the air. Around Ward people complained and wondered how much longer this unnatural weather would continue. All summer long, Ward silently answered.

The women in their linen hoods particularly suffered, he was sure. Their faces were flushed. He and the other men could at least remove their caps.

Ward skirted the Deanery to leave the churchyard and stepped onto Carter Lane. His mouth watered at sight of parked carts laden with fruits and vegetables. Healthy food at last. He quickly forked over a penny, then bit into a strawberry. He didn't care if the berry was shriveled and short on sweetness. He downed a dozen and happily let juice run off his chin.

He left Carter Lane with a basket full of strawberries, leeks, and snow peas. As he headed down toward Thames Street, the gray hulk of Baynard's Castle loomed before the river. He could hardly believe such an ugly heap of stones served as a royal residence. Only the historian in him regretted that the eyesore no longer stood.

Thames Street bore less traffic than West Cheap. Which just made him an easier target for the cursed 'prentices. Ward had his half crown ready and countered each assault with "Tell me where lodges Will Slaughter". These youths too did not know, nor did their masters.

Ward bought a piping hot sausage, agreeably spiced, at a cookshop. This he chomped as he moved east on Thames through Vintry, then Ropery. In Ropery he stepped around a cart with a broken wheel, then paused before the mansion of Coldharbour House. His eyes followed the ivy clad walls up and he counted five stories.

He gazed longingly on the London residence of the Lady Margaret Beaufort. Oh, to gain entry and interview this tiny but determined woman who had so profoundly changed the course of English—and world—history.

The odor of fish saturated the air as he neared London Bridge. Traffic thickened and he struggled with his temper as body after body bumped him without apology. The way so many shouted also strained his nerves.

The shouting swelled to a roar about the wharves at Billingsgate, which berthed two dozen fishing boats. A semi-riot was in progress as buyers vied for the choicest catch. Hands eagerly grabbed at a variety of fish and—snakes? Ward grimaced as he saw the slimy long objects were eels. Buyers fought hardest for the eels.

He questioned a number of the crowd. His half crown caught ready attention, but there was no help here either. Several people stared at his mouth as he spoke. He puzzled until he realized the uniqueness of his mouth, which held all thirty-two teeth.

Ward turned from the crowd. His eyes fell on several men at river's edge, whom were laughing and pointing towards London Bridge. The tide was running to sea and frothy water surged through the white stone arches that supported the bridge. Between the arches shot small boats, probably manned by drunken fools. One in two boats overturned during passage and not every head reappeared above water.

Ward shook his own head and returned to Thames Street. Shortly he arrived at Custom House. Ships of all sizes, and nationality, waited at these docks as men clad in the King's green and white livery boarded to assess cargo. On the sparkling Thames beyond he saw scores of other vessels and hundreds of snow white swans.

Men steadily entered and exited the three story building. Ward put his question to every person not a royal official. Now he held out two coins, but to no avail. In his frustration he wanted to run through the streets shouting "Fifty crowns to he who takes me to Black Will!"

This wasn't looking good. London had a population of only seventy-five thousand souls. At least one of the two hundred inhabitants questioned today should know or know of William Slaughter. There weren't that many degrees of separation in a population this size.

He needed Slaughter. More than anyone else, this man could crack the case wide open. Slaughter was among the last on reliable record to see the Princes alive. Others realistically privy to their fate—Richard III, Buckingham, Brackenbury—lay in their graves.

Slaughter could tell him whether the Princes met their fate in July or September of 1483. If September that validated the account of Sir Thomas More, who held that Richard's aide James Tyrell murdered the Princes. If they died in July that validated Roger Ward. Ward held that the Duke of Buckingham had urged Richard to kill the Princes, and upon getting the go ahead, Buckingham did the deed just before leaving London in July.

Black Will could himself lie in a grave. In this era of rampant disease and habitual violence many died before their time. If Slaughter escaped the plague then consumption or sweating sickness could have got him. Or he might have perished in a tavern brawl, or even on the orders of Richard to help keep secret the crime.

Or Slaughter could have fled England. Both Richard III and Henry VII would have reason to see the Princes' jailer dead or permanently in a cell. This day Black Will might walk the streets of any burg on the Continent. If he was smart, he did.

Ward began to fear that this opportunity was going to slip away. Just like the other big ones of his life. Except this opportunity was the chance of a hundred lifetimes.

If he blew this, he would kill himself. He swore he would. Defeat in this quest he could not swallow. He would climb to the top of Saint Paul's steeple and jump.

Ward left Custom House in gloom. He did not bother to question anyone else as he shuffled away with head down.

He shuffled until stopped by a big ditch filled with murky brown water. He lifted his head to see a crenellated wall. Beyond the long run of moat and wall, a chalky keep rose into a pure blue sky.

In surprise Ward realized he stared at the White Tower.

Despite his despair a thrill ran through him. On this day in 1498 a chest did not lie beneath the While Tower. Not yet, as he had vigorously contended in both lecture and print. The chest had been discovered in the 1600's and the skeletons within were proclaimed those of the Princes.

He held that the chest was planted years after the disappearance of the Princes, probably in 1502 when Henry executed James Tyrell. Tyrell supposedly confessed to murdering the Princes and burying them beneath a staircase at the Tower. But that story was likely Tudor propaganda.

Ward insisted that the chest contained the bones of two anonymous youths stolen from a graveyard. The chest would serve Henry as ultimate insurance against anyone claiming to be one of the Princes, as had Warbeck. In a pinch Henry could "discover" the bones and immediately discredit the pretender

If only at this very moment Ward could lead an excavation party to the staircase to prove his case.

The bones of the Princes lay elsewhere, Ward knew it. Their remains resided either on the bottom of the River Thames or on one of the estates of Buckingham. A romanticist would hope the Duke spared the lads and instead exiled them to Iceland or another forbiddingly distant location. But Buckingham wanted to be king, and dead Princes brought him just that much closer.

Ward's spirits lifted as he remembered that whatever happened to the Princes, it had begun right here. Whether or not he found Slaughter, he stood at the epicenter of the mystery a bare fifteen years after its commencement. That certainly beat five hundred years. No person in history was better positioned or trained than he to seek out the elusive truth.

He did an about face, then pulled three half crowns from his purse.

Chapter 2

**A** s he lay in the tub outside the hunting lodge, Henry kept his face blank. But beneath the soothingly cool water his fists clenched. Would he ever feel secure on his throne? With the Cornishmen broken at Blackheath and Warbeck in the Tower, he had believed all threats behind him. Now this.

He remained impassive as Reginald Bray continued with the disturbing, and puzzling, news. Henry knew the grooms and courtiers he had waved away were watching his face to discern the nature of the tidings. As always they would watch in vain.

Sir Reginald sat on a bench beside the tub and kept his voice low. Despite the shade of the trees, midday heat forced sweat to bead continuously on his brow. Sweat also dripped from the tip of his snub nose, and his gray hair hung limply.

"Baldwyn is a weasel," said Bray, "but I believe him."

"Why would my mother keep this from me? It makes no sense."

His mother knew how desperately he had sought William Slaughter since gaining the throne. She should have sent word here to Eltham the moment she learned a man was about London asking for Slaughter.

"Mayhap your lady mother did not want to trouble you while you chase in the park."

Now Henry did let a frown show. Bray knew there was more to her deception than that. But Sir Reginald's enduring loyalty would strive to put her inexplicable behavior in the best light.

He supposed he should not fault Bray. Sir Reginald had faithfully served his mother long before serving him. Henry valued loyalty, that precious commodity, above all other virtues.

Undoubtedly his mother believed she acted entirely in the interest of the Crown. Henry did not suspect her motivation, only her judgement. What unnerved him was that her judgement had always equaled his own. But she was getting on in years.

"How did she learn of this seeker? Surely she was not offered the coins herself."

"One of her cookboys was fetching fish at the wharves, where he saw the seeker. Back at Coldharbour his tongue flew and your lady mother soon came to know. She then gave Baldwyn his task."

A harsh task, indeed. Baldwyn and his knaves were to find and seize the seeker, then spirit him to the crypt of Coldharbour for inquisition. Henry suspected when the questioning ended the seeker would be put to death, or why else the secrecy?

A page had edged forward bearing two goblets. Henry chided himself and beckoned the page. He should have offered drink immediately upon Bray's arrival. Sir Reginald must be thirsty both from the heat and from his hard ride.

Bray drained his goblet while Henry merely sipped at the spiced wine.

"I trust you told Baldwyn to keep his distance once he sights the seeker."

"Aye, Your Grace. And he will send word to me alone. Lady Margaret will think the hunt without success."

"Good. Now what does this man who betrays my mother expect in return?"

Bray looked uncomfortable.

"Well, Sir Reginald?"

"He wants to serve at Westminster. In the Chamber."

"Nay." One who broke trust would break it again. "Find him something at the Wardrobe. He will remain in London."

"He also asks for a hundred pounds. Your lady mother has promised him fifty."

Henry grimaced. But his mother valued coin no less than he did. If she thought this task worth that many nobles, then he best exceed her. He nodded.

"As grateful as I am for this viper's help," said Henry, "we cannot leave the burden of the hunt to him. Take as many warders as you think proper from the Tower and spread them about the City. And you may take half my Yeomen back with you."

"I have already have men in place. But I welcome use of the Yeomen."

Henry nodded with satisfaction. Bray had always been able to proceed wisely when lacking direction from his sovereign, whether the labor was public or privy.

The page had delivered Bray a second cup of wine. From this one he drank more slowly. Sweat continued to flow from his broad brow.

Henry again cursed the heat. When would it end?

"If this seeker does find Slaughter, take them both straight away. Lodge them in the White Tower. Apply no instruments of torture. I will personally question them."

"Aye, your Grace."

"Neither is to be harmed in the taking. I will hang the man that does more than bruise them."

"I will make that plain."

"And of course, Baldwyn will not partake in the seizing."

"He will already be at the Wardrobe, Your Grace."

Henry smiled. Sir Reginald was almost an extension of his own mind. May this prudent and steadfast man, twenty years his senior, live as long as himself.

Bray departed. The crowd lingering out of earshot began to move toward Henry. Again he waved them back. He needed to ponder without distraction.

He suppressed joy. He must not anticipate the seizing of William Slaughter before the doing. Too many disappointments had occurred in his long attempt to learn the fate of the two sons of Edward IV.

Henry had always wagered that they died at the hands of the crouchback. Since neither of the Princes had appeared by now, fifteen years after their last sighting, that tended to support they were dead. Seeing their bones would happily prove it.

He had scoured the Tower without success for those bones. But he could not scour all England.

Slaughter could point him in the right direction. He would knight and pension the man if the bones were found.

With the remains of those ill-fated boys in his possession he need never again fear a pretender. The ordeals with the pretenders Simnel and Warbeck had probably aged him a decade. Warbeck especially in his skilled impersonation had come close to reopening the wars between York and Lancaster.

With the death of the Princes confirmed his young dynasty could at last sink firm roots. He did not want his sons to endure the conspiracy and challenge that had troubled his own reign from the start. England herself needed a long period of quiet.

He sipped at his wine. What was his mother up to? He could not for a moment believe she would work against him. She had labored her whole life, indeed repeatedly risked that life, to put him on the throne of England. A son never had a more devoted mother.

The only valid explanation for her behavior must lie in that she knew something concerning William Slaughter he did not. But why would she try to keep such knowledge from him?

He debated confronting her on the matter. Yet that might not be wise...at least yet. Wait until he had Slaughter in hand. Give her no chance to thwart his attempt to seize the seeker.

Later he would visit her at Coldharbour and gently try to pry loose an explanation. It was almost a jest. Every other subject in the land he could command to speak. His mother he could only ask.

What did she hide?

**E** veryone else at Coldharbour House complained with increasing vigor about the heat. But Margaret did not. She sat comfortably with her embroidery board in the third floor solar without a drop of perspiration forming under her garments.

Small size and small bones let her escape the torment the household suffered. The warmth also kept at bay the agonies of rheumatism that held her hostage when the weather turned damp and cold. Which in this land was far too often.

If she suffered, it was because for two weeks she had not slept more than a few hours a night. Ever since sensing the arrival of evil in Wales, she woke in the middle of these short nights and could not return to slumber.

She had tried hard to dismiss her foreboding. It persisted. Then three days ago, her worry heightened to the point she could not eat. The next morning she sensed that the evil stalked right outside the walls of Coldharbour. She had flown to a dozen windows in hope of sighting the beast in human form that caused such apprehension. Her eyes revealed nothing.

Then the Lord had favored her, and Tudor, and all the tomorrows, for He had allowed one of her household to encounter this bearer of evil. Would that the cookboy possessed more wit, for a passing poor description he had provided: a full mouth of pearly teeth and a tongue that spoke fine English yet marked itself alien. Of his countenance or attire the cookboy might as well have been blind. Still, she had praised the lad and given him a groat.

This warning allowed her to put Baldwyn instantly to the search. She would have preferred to place another in charge, but her best men were on her estates with the closest two day's ride away. Peter Baldwyn was a man of limited ability. However, he had never failed her.

The man who sought Slaughter must come from the time ahead. His teeth and his accent and his question left no other conclusion. She did not want to believe that, she abhorred believing, but she had never been one to deny reality merely because it waxed odious.

Yea, he was here. How he found his way here she must learn, and learn quickly. All hung in the balance.

She wanted to scream. If she could raise Owen Tudor from his grave and reattach his head, she would throttle him. The man had always played too casually at life. Owen swore he had slain all the Keepers, every last one. She need never worry. Well, see her worry now.

Owen, Owen. So much persuasive charm. No wonder he won the heart of a windowed queen. No wonder he won the favor of a pious king. No wonder he had won Margaret Beaufort for his depraved son.

Yes, he had charmed her too, though even at twelve years of age she was not easily charmed. If it had been possible she would have married Owen instead of Edmund. In her entire life no one else had so readily brought her joy. At the time she was surprised how much she missed his presence; she was even more surprised at the impure thoughts he evoked.

But of course Owen would have not married her. Even in her youth she was not a fetching woman. Too slight of stature, too sharp of face. She carried royal blood, and had been heiress to a goodly number of estates, but that really wouldn't have mattered to him. Owen was meant for beautiful women with hearts as light as his own.

His attention at first had excited her. Then he began extol the virtues of his son, and how a union would produce heirs that would doubly carry royal blood. Margaret listened despite her disappointment, for she knew Owen had the ear of his stepson Henry VI. Owen promised that her children would bear the titles of duke and duchess.

She had only briefly met Edmund and that five minutes had not endeared him. He exuded arrogance and she sensed depravity. From others she heard confirming tales of lechery, bullying, and contempt for the rule of law. Such a man would treat her with neither respect nor affection.

She would rather profess than marry this Edmund.

When she declared thus to Owen, he merely smiled. He complimented her good sense, and said it reaffirmed his opinion of her. Then he invited her to journey with him into Wales, where he said a half day's ride from Pembroke Castle lay holy ground. There God had revealed many visions to him. He was the only man alive who knew of this ground, hidden in wilderness.

At first she had not believed him, but he repeated the claim with an earnestness she had not witnessed in him before. He swore God had commanded that Owen wed his son to Margaret, and if force of argument failed Owen was to bring her to the holy ground. There the Lord Himself would reveal to Margaret why she must wed the young man—a man that even Owen admitted would make an abominable husband.

At twelve Margaret was already deeply pious. Though she might not completely believe Owen, she had agreed to the journey. The possibility that God would speak to her, just out of childhood, both thrilled and humbled her.

They had arrived at the holy ground on a brilliant autumn day. She still remembered the soft blue of the sky and the hues of fire in the leaves all about. Then the miracle Owen had promised occurred as they trod through woods of oak and ash.

One moment they walked in dry warmth, the next in chill rain. She had taken the abrupt change in weather as sign of God's presence and fallen to her knees. Owen urged her up, saying greater miracles waited in the town of Haverfordwest three miles distant.

A shocking and wondrous day later they returned to the woods. Owen had her commitment to marry Edmund, and she had her commitment from God—as revealed through the chronicles written in the time five centuries ahead—that He would raise her son to the throne of England and England to righteous glory.

She often wondered if she would have married Edmund if God had not also promised that Edmund would die within seven months of the exchange of vows. She might have refused anyway if she had known the degradation that waited on the wedding night.

By the day of the wedding—a month short of her thirteenth birthday—she completely loathed Edmund. Her skin crawled as she anticipated the consummation to come, but she knew she must submit to his penetration to conceive her throne destined child. She had steeled herself. She prayed hard for God to ease the pain and disgust; surely He would grant succor to her, His devoted servant.

Nay, the Lord abandoned her that night. Edmund, drunk and insolent, had refused to damp the candles in the bed chamber. He then tore off her kirtle and proceeded to paw her privy parts. She howled as panic rose, which earned a hand clamped over her mouth. He then took her. Or raped her, as that was always how she remembered it.

When tidings arrived that he died as a Yorkist prisoner she could barely restrain her joy. She of course did not regret Edmund's end, but what primarily fueled her rapture was that his death occurred exactly in the manner and on the date as the Lord had stated. The accuracy of the revelations continued twelve weeks later at Pembroke Castle. On the 28th day of January in 1457 she gave birth to a boy, who she had already named Henry.

Unfortunately four years later God also kept his word when Owen died, after the battle of Mortimer's Cross. She had known it was coming, and she had already grieved. But his loss still crushed her. Owen was the only man she had physically desired, and perhaps loved.

She had shut herself in Pembroke Castle and did not hear the particulars of his death. She did not need to, for the chronicles had said that Owen died of wounds suffered in battle. They also told that Lancaster won the battle.

So weeks later it was with bewilderment she learned York triumphed at Mortimer's Cross and that afterward the Duke of York—the soon to be crowned Edward IV—ordered an unwounded Owen beheaded. Then began the anxiety, the same gut wrenching torture she endured now.

At first she had tried to deny her suspicions. She told herself that the Yorkist victory and Owen's execution were only minor deviations from the chronicles. Mortimer's Cross was not a decisive battle. The looming encounter at Towton Moor, where Lancaster would utterly smash York, would settle the contest for the crown of England.

As the chronicles stated, the battle of Towton Moor took place on Palm Sunday and in a blinding snowstorm. As stated, thirty thousand men fell. Yet her anxiety turned to dread, for on that decisive day it was the flower of Lancaster that perished. And when she again visited the world of five centuries hence dread burst to horror.

For there the Antichrist ruled. She learned that God Himself had suffered defeat on that long ago Palm Sunday. The chronicles now said her son had never been king and that shame instead of glory had come to England.

It took her two decades, but Margaret managed to foil the Antichrist. By great exertion and cunning—with of course the Lord's help—she cut short the malignant rule of Lucifer's son. She returned Henry to his rightful throne, and the world to its rightful course.

But she should have known the Antichrist would not remain dormant. Yea, He had sent this man who sought William Slaughter to again put the rule of Tudor and the soul of England in mortal peril.

A spasm of fear coursed through Margaret. Her head jerked and her eyes flew open. She realized she had dozed off.

The shafts of sunlight pouring into the solar had traveled a good two yards across the rush-strewn floor. The steady sunlight had also raised the warmth beyond even her endurance.

She descended to the courtyard where most of the household milled. All were fanning vigorously.

Normally she would have summoned the steward to explain why the household forsook their duties. But today she did not begrudge a soul seeking respite from this infernal heat. Each day seemed worse than the one before. May God grant them and all England cool weather by month's end. She could not remember if the chronicles said the torment persisted into August.

She settled in shade. And waited. As she had waited all day, for a runner from Baldwyn announcing he had found the man who served the Antichrist.

**A** fter vespers she received Baldwyn in her privy chamber. The double-chinned man usually fidgeted in her presence, but this evening he stood rock steady. In addition he did not appear fatigued, as he had the previous times reporting on the progress of the search. A full day of stepping about London in this heat must reduce even the hardiest men to soggy exhaustion.

She knew he would lie even before he opened his mouth.

"My Lady, we still cannot put eyes on this man. The devil guides him. Twice we were but minutes behind as he approached citizens with his coin. They say he now offers three two and six."

Her lack of sleep, and the heat, almost let her fly at him. She was a master of deception, and by hard experience had won skill at detecting its attempt in others. This middling knave however presented little challenge.

She kept her face stern but free of suspicion. "Three? Soon it will be a whole noble."

"I fear so, my Lady."

Baldwyn would have much to fear once she uncovered the purpose of his lying.

"Mayhap he has seen you and fled London."

"Nay, nay, my Lady. The men are most careful. Each knows he will be flogged if the man is alerted."

Her mind worked furiously while she kept herself bolted to the chair. So Baldwyn had found him. And would not be telling her, despite the twenty pounds she had promised for success. By Saint Catherine, why?

Then it struck her. Baldwyn had sought—and obtained—greater reward. Only one other person beside herself would be interested in a man asking for word of William Slaughter. Her son, the King.

By some miracle she kept the realization from her face. She urged Baldwyn to get a full night's rest, and she wished him good fortune on the morrow. She dismissed him.

Margaret nearly choked on rage as she rose from the chair. She would see Baldwyn flayed, she swore. But that was the least that mattered now. She must move swiftly, more swiftly than she ever had in a life of nimble moves.

First she calmed herself. Hard experience had also taught that anger unbridled only led to greater woe. Anger must provide the strength for a well-aimed arrow, not for wild swings of a mace.

Before leaving the chamber she paused to pay homage to the cloth of gold tapestry that hung between the pair of oriel windows. In the candlelight the threads glimmered. Over and over again on the tapestry the crown of Tudor suspended above the red rose of Lancaster. Below, supporting both the rose and the crown stood the Beaufort portcullis.

She was the portcullis, the iron barrier. Now as always. They would not batter her down nor surmount her. Whatever she must do, she would do. She would safeguard both the dynasty and the England that God had bequeathed her.

Margaret left the chamber. She had a web to spin.

Chapter 3

**R** oses surrounded Ward. The arbor in which he sat with Elizabeth Brackenbury effectively banished the rest of the Minoresses' convent, and indeed, all of London. The crimson and cream flowers and the tangle of green leaves cut off sound as well as sight. He could almost believe just he and this pleasant faced woman inhabited the world.

What a relief to sit amongst such solitude. He needed escape from London, from its din, crowds, and filth. The shielding walls and foliage of the Minories transported him far from the pesthole of the City, though it lay less than a furlong away.

A puff of wind rustled leaves. It also carried scents from the convent herb garden, scents that overpowered the delicate fragrance of the roses. Then the leaves stilled and the only movement in the afternoon heat was the lazy meandering of nectar-laden bees.

God, this place seduced. He could see why men and women voluntarily imprisoned themselves. Here one could rest mind and body.

Ward was surprised that he had gained admittance to the convent so easily. He half expected to be curtly turned away. The nuns who answered his rap at the great oak door had actually smiled as they asked his business. When he inquired of Elizabeth Brackenbury one nun fairly scampered to fetch her. Ward blessed this turn of fortune, most welcome after three fruitless days of seeking Black Will.

Elizabeth had shortly appeared. She seemed delighted to have a visitor. Ward was startled to see she did not wear nun's habit. But of course women could refuse to profess when entering a convent—provided they brought with them income sufficient for support. Ward wondered how the unmarried daughter of a posthumously convicted traitor would have a shilling to her name.

Ward studied the woman he knew not yet thirty years of age, but who looked closer to forty. Disease and poor diet had likely stolen the bloom of youth, which should radiate from her pretty if plumpish face. Like so many others her mouth displayed missing teeth.

Curiosity burned on the sweet oval face of this daughter of one of Richard III's most trusted lieutenants. She however patiently waited for Ward to broach the purpose of his visit. He got the feeling she would wait the remainder of the afternoon without protest.

He hesitated, more from fear she knew nothing than that she would withhold information.

"I have come a long way to speak with you," Ward began. "My liege lord—a noble of Lithuania—traveled to this fair kingdom in the days of Edward IV, who received him at court. While at court he was presented to Edward's two sons. They of course were then only small children. Nonetheless he found them quite charming."

Elizabeth politely smiled. Ward detected no guile in the woman's eyes, only kindness and warmth. She had apparently inherited much from her father, the man they called "gentle Brackenbury" in a most ungentle age.

"Prince Edward said he would like to go to Lithuania when older to meet our king. That little boy was quite serious. My lord said he already carried himself like a monarch."

Ward affected a grimace. "Alas, the boy was a monarch only a matter of weeks. My lord was aggrieved when he heard the two princes disappeared into the Tower of London. My lord is elderly now and unable to withstand the rigors of a sea voyage. So he has sent me here to see if I could better learn their fate than he has from rumor."

Elizabeth Brackenbury uttered a sigh genuinely forlorn. "You may tell your lord the poor youths died in the Tower."

Ward's heart skipped a beat. Now he feared she was about to divulge the wrong truth, one which would confirm the dubious tale of Sir Thomas More. More claimed Richard III sent James Tyrell to the Tower under orders to murder the Princes. At the time Robert Brackenbury controlled access to the Tower.

Tyrell demanded Brackenbury surrender control of the Tower for one night, More wrote. On that night in September of 1483 the Princes were supposedly smothered in their beds. Improbabilities riddled More's tale and even Richard's detractors—of which Ward was one—discounted it.

If Brackenbury's daughter confirmed More Ward was dead in the water. He could kiss goodbye any chance of redemption.

Elizabeth dabbed her eyes. "My father said they were the most beautiful children."

Ward hardly dared press on. But he might as well hear it, whether to his benefit or not. After all he was a historian, and he had the duty to let Robert Brackenbury speak from the grave after a silence of five centuries. Ward might even win minor note for uncovering a piece of evidence confirming Richard's guilt.

"Mistress Elizabeth, I plead you tell me what he told you. For the sake of my aged lord, whose heart warmed so to those beautiful boys."

"My father swore me to silence." She hung her head

Ward gulped.

"But my father and the usurper are dead. Would my oath still hold, especially if told to one not of our land?"

Ward took a chance and patted her milk white hand. She did not pull it away.

"By my troth, whatever you say will not reach the ears of anyone in England. Only my lord will know. I truly believe your father would not want his tale kept from a friend of the Princes."

Eyes still downcast, she sniffled. Then she spoke.

"My father was Constable of the Tower when the Princes were imprisoned there. My father swore he tried to provide the Princes every comfort even after the usurper had them moved to the Garden Tower. He begged they be returned to the royal apartments. But usurper would not relent."

Her jaw hardened. "My father said their cells were dark, and cold even in summer. I grieve to think they never again felt the sun."

"Aye." Ward patted her hand.

She turned sad gray eyes on him. "You are kind, sir. Tell your lord my father was an honorable man, though he served a wicked man."

Ward nodded, though he wanted to dispute the pejorative "wicked". Although definitely a hard man, Richard was not evil. Richard certainly ordered his nephews killed, but every usurper of the English crown—including his illustrious brother Edward IV—had put to death the monarch they usurped. Richard's political ineptness constituted his worst flaw as a ruler, not propensity to murder rivals (that honor belonged to the Tudors).

Brackenbury's daughter continued. "The usurper had just left London to begin a progress through the middle shires. The next day the Duke of Buckingham came to the Tower. By his barge to St. Thomas's Gate. The Duke bore a writ commanding my father and his warders to vacate the Tower that night. My father had no choice but to obey, as the usurper's seal was plain upon the writ.

"As the sun went down, my father greatly feared for the safety of the Princes. He had one of his men steal around and watch the Gate. Late into the night nothing happened. Then after the moon went down, the Duke and his men came back to the barge."

"Do you know who was the man your father sent to watch?" God, if he could find and interview this person.

"Nay. Or I should say I did not ask. The men carried two sacks over their shoulders. The sacks did not move. He was sure the sacks held the Princes and that they were dead."

As Ward digested her mournful words his heart raced. What she was saying—glory to God, could it truly be? If so, he was redeemed.

"They threw the sacks onto the barge. As if the sacks held flour instead of royal boys. The man who watched was both full of sorrow and anger, and his anger grew as a child kicked both the sacks."

"A child?" Ward couldn't have heard her right.

"Yea. My father said it must have been the Duke's son. That was an evil thing, to bring a boy only six to the place of murder."

Ward considered. Buckingham believed he would wear the crown by year's end, so perhaps he wanted his heir to witness the means necessary to seize—and keep—that crown. The Duke was cruel and second rate enough to have exposed his son to such brutality.

"When my father returned to the Tower the boys were gone from their cells. The Duke and his men were also gone. When my father later inquired of the usurper, he was told the Princes had been moved to a 'stronger' castle." Elizabeth moaned. "What place in England is stronger than the Tower? My father knew then that the Duke had murdered the boys that night. Their bodies were probably weighted and thrown into the river."

Ward struggled to keep excitement from his voice. Carefully he asked: "Elizabeth, are you certain you remember your father's words well?"

She looked puzzled. "Why would I not?"

"I—it is just that fifteen years have passed. I must have faith in what I recount to my lord."

Did she now eye him with suspicion? Oh no, don't let him lose her goodwill. He needed one more thing from her, the most important thing.

"My father was an honorable man."

"I have heard naught otherwise."

"After that night he should have abandoned the usurper. But he had sworn his loyalty. He would rather die than forsake that holy oath."

Die Robert Brackenbury did, fighting bravely in Richard's suicidal charge at Bosworth.

"Please forgive my clumsy inquisition. I would give you no distress."

The suspicion faded. She smiled sadly. "You also are serving your lord loyally."

"It is a joy to serve him. I must ask—why did your father think that boys were thrown into the Thames?"

"Where else would they be? My father found no sign of freshly dug ground or disturbed stone within the Tower. And the Duke arrived and left by water. The youths must lie there."

Ward sat absolutely still as he digested the stunning revelation this woman had provided in twenty minutes of conversation. Then from his purse he withdrew parchment, a quill, and an inkwell.

"Again, I mean no offense—but do you know how to write?"

Her lips pursed. "I have not penned in a long time. I have no one to write to."

"Could you write what you told me? My lord asks that I ask."

Her hands fairly flew to take the quill. The quill dipped into ink and scratched on the lambskin as she wrote in beautiful script. Ward held his breath as the sentences formed, fearful she would at any second cease. This was too good, too excellent, to be true.

Elizabeth filled the parchment. Ward requested she sign and date it, and she complied without hesitation.

"May this give your lord some small comfort," she said. "Tell him my father also grieved for the boys."

After the ink dried Ward rolled the lambskin and carefully put it his purse. He worked hard to keep triumph off his face.

His hand returned to pat Elizabeth's. "Sweet maiden, I will commend you to my lord."

"When will you depart our shores?"

"Shortly. I must speak to a few others, then I return to my land."

"I envy you your voyage."

Ward swept out his arm. "I envy you these grounds." Peaceful, orderly, beautiful.

She shrugged. "'Tis better than where I dwelled before."

All of a sudden she was regarding him with longing. Not sexual desire, he was sure, more as if she wished he would take her with him.

Ward eased his hand from hers. He had better go. Not without showing his gratitude, though.

He dug into his purse. He pulled out two coins, each a gold noble bearing the countenance of Edward IV. "This is a gift on behalf of my lord."

She did not refuse the coins. She thanked him profusely, and looked at him with even more longing. Then her head dropped. "I will remember you, kind sir."

"And I you." Oh how he would, this agent of his redemption.

With thumb and forefinger she studied the image of Edward IV on one of the gleaming coins. "He was a great king, my father said."

"Probably your finest monarch." Great warrior, lover, administrator, businessman. A shame for everyone he caught a fatal cold in March of 1483.

"Too fond of other men's wives, I think." She attempted a sly smile.

"Indeed." But she probably envied those wives. Or just envied them being wives. Alas, this poor maiden. As the daughter of an attainted man, she'd had little chance at a normal life. Slim hope of marriage, children, or home. In effect she too had died at Bosworth.

Ward gathered himself to rise. He wouldn't mind chatting longer in this idyllic setting, but he really better go. He had to put in some more effort today to locate Will Slaughter. More importantly, he must think hard where to stash Elizabeth's testament. The hiding place must assure the document would both remain intact and undiscoverable for five hundred years.

He bid a heartfelt farewell to the woman who had rescued him from his own version of the living dead.

**W** ard got only yards from the Eden of the Minories when the city ditch confronted him. He had barely noticed it on his way to the convent, as he was so worried whether he would gain admittance. Now, despite his excitement, the stench of the open sewer assaulted him with full force.

He gagged as he saw a decaying dog floating in the malodorous, gelatinized surface. Even the kites refrained from feeding upon the putrescent carcass. Flies and maggots were not as picky.

Ward shook his head. No wonder these people endured repetitive visitation of plagues. Londoners in fact bred them. It was amazing, really, anybody survived in the combination cesspool and garbage dump that constituted this "flower of cities all".

He paralleled the ditch and city wall until he reached the drawbridge at Aldgate. He stood clear as a raker's cart full of street filth lumbered across the bridge planks and headed for pits in fields to the east. He held his breath as he scurried over the ditch and through the towered gate. The bored guards, on the lookout mainly for carriers of pestilence, avoided eye contact.

He walked up Aldgate Street amid light traffic. Almost immediately beggars pestered, along with a few 'prentices. He rued that he wore gentleman's attire. If not for the necessity of impressing those answering at the Minoresses' door, he would be clad today in journeyman's hose and shirt. He would change as soon he reached the Blossom.

He hurried over the cobblestones. The beggars cursed him, but he knew that if he gave one a penny the others would be over him like those maggots on that dog. He did feel a tug of pity for them. He had never seen such wretched souls.

People and their stink thickened as he neared the market at Cornhill. He searched for a quiet side street to bypass the crowds, but all he saw were narrow alleys equally choked with people and carts. He might as well face it; he wasn't going to get any real relief until he got back out into the countryside.

An authoritative voice shouted somewhere ahead, commanding the citizens to make way. Ward's height advantage allowed him view of a man in constable's uniform leading a large horse by the reins. Jeering arose. As the crowd parted Ward saw the horse's burden, a bedraggled man in butcher's apron tied in a sitting position upon a trundle.

Well-aimed offal splattered off the man's face, which grimaced in misery. Around his neck hung a large cut of obviously spoiled meat. The constable led the horse at a leisurely pace about the marketplace.

Next time sell fresh meat, thought Ward. From Wales on he'd had too much trouble with his stomach and bowels to feel sympathy.

The citizens pressed tighter. Ward gripped his purse and retreated to a brick wall. A trio of chatting women by the wall provided a lee in which he could stand unmolested.

He stared at the hundreds of people milling in the market. With chagrin he realized he had not questioned them, or anyone this afternoon, about William Slaughter. He must get back to it no matter how discouraging the process. Black Will could provide clinching corroboration to the hearsay account of Elizabeth Brackenbury.

But he would give it only a few more days. If he didn't come across Slaughter by then, he had a big decision to make. Whether to cash in his chips and return home, or head into Kent to seek an audience with Edward Stafford, Buckingham's son.

With Elizabeth Brackenbury's deposition he was back in the game and on his way to renown. But again, her testimony was hearsay. Edward Stafford, if he deigned to speak with Ward, could tell him exactly what happened on that barge. Stafford might even remember where the bodies were dumped. If Ward could recover the bones of the Princes the acclaim would become worldwide.

He would sleep on whether to go home or go on. Even if the latter, he would still depart this land by summer's end. Over the winter he would get his findings published, then return in the spring to begin the far more dangerous part of his quest. It would take a winter's worth of planning to approach co-conspirators Margaret Beaufort and John Morton and come away with his head still on his shoulders.

Ward decided to seek Slaughter a couple hours, then head back to the Blossom. Where he would celebrate today's triumph. There he would take a long bath, down a good meal and guzzle more of the Rhenish wine he had come to savor. He could also use a roll in the hay. For a crown or two perhaps the innkeeper would send up that winsome chambermaid with the chestnut tresses.

Ward was about to launch himself into the crowd when a pig trotted out the adjacent alley. A pig with a jingling bell tied around its neck. People gave way to the pig.

He smiled derisively. What a place. He knew about the pigs, they were under the protection of Saint Anthony's church. People would feed them scraps as a form of almsgiving, since once fatted the pigs ended as meat for the poor.

Pigs in the streets were certainly appropriate for this sty of a city. And the pigs likely were cleaner than the people.

Ward bit his lip. What was the matter with him? He should be on his knees for the privilege of viewing this marketplace, this London. Sarcasm and condescension had no place here.

Observe like a professional, he ordered.

Again he cast eyes at the gaudily attired, raucous, reeking populace. This time he saw a race of men and women not at all despondent because they lived in appalling conditions. They heartily laughed, boisterously haggled, vigorously strode. They radiated energy and confidence.

Ward knew who these people were, even if they did not. These people with lice in their hair, rotting teeth and disease-scarred skin carried the most potent blood on the planet. From this vibrant populace would spring the generations of Englishmen who would time and time again steer the course of history.

Before him milled budding greatness. These citizens going about their everyday tasks had not the faintest idea they lived at the dawn of their nation's march to greatness. They considered themselves special, but they also knew England was only a small kingdom on the periphery of Christendom.

No, these hale and hardy folk had no inkling they stared destiny in the face. No idea at all that even on this day they were erecting the pillars upon so much of Western Civilization would rest.

Ward silently hailed them.

A half-hour ago he had hailed the Minories. He hailed it still; the convent quite outshone this rough and rude marketplace. What civilized man would not prefer cleanliness to filth, fragrance to stench, grace to vulgarity?

And yet—the germ of the great civilization to come did not grow within the seductive confines of that convent. Wistful, longing Elizabeth Brackenbury certainly sensed that. Nothing virile would blossom there. The Minories served well as refuge, but Ward must admit that refuge was best taken in short doses. Beware long term residency.

The Minories had all but bled the life out of Elizabeth. The alluring tranquility sapped whatever industry and initiative she brought there. Ward imagined few Londoners would fail to succumb to its enfeebling charm.

In the teeming market before him industry and initiative were alive and well. Their force could practically bowl one over. Ward luxuriated in the buffeting, the beginning of the gale that would transform the world.

**W** ard, still leaning against the brick wall, flinched as someone tugged on his arm. He whirled to peer into a face that made him flinch again. Rheumy and reddened eyes bugged above a twisted, oft broken nose. Rubbery lips ringed a mouth, which displayed only five or six teeth, all of them black.

Ward lurched away from the beggar. But the beggar—wearing a shirt and hose of coarse, undyed wool—clung to the silk of Ward's doublet and rasped: "I am Slaughter."

Ward stood paralyzed, despite the nauseating breath that assaulted him.

"Feign anger, sir," said the beggar, "for we are being watched."

"Watched? By whom?" Ward's eyes darted about. He saw no one watching. This wretch was probably trying to distract him; Ward clamped a hand on his purse.

"Feign! Wave me away, as you have all others who beg."

"You are not William Slaughter. You lie in hope of getting coin."

"The King's men watch. They will take us soon as they know you speak with me." The wretch held out cupped hands. "I will go into the alley leftward, and into a dwelling four down rightward. Wait several minutes then follow. I will take you to another alley, and we can escape these men."

And waylay me, no doubt.

Ward did not have to pretend anger as he pushed the wretch away. "Begone! Or I will strike a heavy blow." Which would probably kill this pathetic creature.

"Follow and I will tell you of a night fifteen years ago when the Duke of Buckingham came to the Tower and did an evil deed."

Ward gasped. His eyes followed the back of the wretch as he disappeared into the alley.

It was Slaughter! It had to be Slaughter. Oh mother of God, he could not believe his incredible good fortune. This was decisive. This would seal his victory.

Then his euphoria vanished as the words "the King's men watch" thundered back. Nonchalantly as he could, he swung his eyes about the crowded marketplace. Again he could not spot anyone observing him. Which did not mean they weren't.

It was entirely possible. He had been about London three days asking for William Slaughter. Word could well have gotten back to agents of Henry Tudor. Yes, they could be shadowing him. And it would make sense they would try to use him as bait to nab Slaughter, who certainly had been on Henry's most wanted list for years.

Ward gathered himself, then moved casually to his left. He turned into the alley. Without glancing back he walked swiftly to the fourth structure on the right, a windowless one of daub and wattle. The door was open. One hand crept into his purse and wrapped around the canister of pepper spray. He went in.

"Quickly." Slaughter was the only one in the dark interior. He was motioning for Ward to follow him out an opening at the rear, where it looked even darker. Ward hesitated, then asked, "Who was physician to the Princes while you were at the Tower?"

"John Augustine." The wretch—Slaughter—had answered instantly. He continued to motion frantically. "The King's men will be along. Come!"

Ward followed Slaughter out the rear. Ward stumbled as he stepped onto the uneven dirt floor of a musty shed. The stumble was perhaps the most fortuitous of his life, for something swished behind him—something meant for his head. Ward whirled to face a man who was lifting a club for another try.

Out of the dimness other men with clubs appeared. Ward pulled out the canister and sprayed three hundred sixty degrees. Then he fled the blinded.

Chapter 4

**A** s Reginald Bray paced the brown grass of the Tower Green, he tried hard to keep his fury private. He owed this indomitable woman everything. From the start she had recognized his talents. She had plucked him from obscurity to serve her in offices of ever greater stature, and later her recommendation had persuaded the king to raise him to the Council. That, and the respect due royal blood, kept his tongue civil.

The King's mother was not fooled. "You look ready to have me flayed."

"Madam—Lady Margaret, you must have taken leave of your senses." They had the seeker well in hand and her foolery had led to his slipping away. The King would be beside himself.

Lady Margaret did not often smile disarmingly, but she made the attempt now. "When have I ever acted without sense?"

He was not assuaged. If anyone else had attempted to kidnap the seeker under the noses of his men, they would find themselves chained to a wall in the depths of the White Tower. Lady Margaret thought herself exempt from consequence. And unfortunately, she was.

"Now he is loose", he barked. "To God he did not reach a gate before the guards were alerted."

"He is in the City. I feel it."

Bray shuddered. He had never gotten used to Lady Margaret's gift of vision. In one less pious the gift would smack of witchcraft.

Her smile was gone. "You must let me join in the questioning. I can determine the seeker in an instant."

"How? You have never set eyes on him. My men have."

"It is his tongue that will reveal him."

"The King will have my head if I let you anywhere near those we are arresting." Which was anyone in the City with an alien accent. He had the Yeomen and the warders drawing speech from each male not a child.

"He will have it if this man gets away."

They both knew Henry Tudor did not execute for failure. This king merely dismissed those fallen from favor. And in this case the King would realize bad luck—and maternal meddling—instead of incompetence caused the failure.

"Lady Margaret, I must deny your request. I will however keep you informed."

Her tiny frame drew rigid. He was well acquainted with this response. When challenged Margaret Beaufort could deceive anyone into believing he faced a six foot warrior in full harness. Bray resisted taking a step backward.

"Sir Reginald, have I ever not put the welfare of my son first?"

"Nay, Madam. But—"

"God has revealed that my Henry faces supreme danger." Her eyes had drawn to dagger points. "Can you otherwise explain my desperation this past week?"

Her visions had never proved false. She had even foreseen the voyage of Cabot to the New Found Land.

Bray could feel himself once more bending to her will. But at this stage in his life, he should be beyond that. "You should have come to me. Baldwyn was not the man for such a task."

"You are Henry's man now. Rightly so. You would have been compelled to speed to him, no matter any vow of secrecy."

"How can this seeker so harm? He is but one man, and not a pretender."

"Have I ever lied to you?"

Bray paced harder. The sun was up but two hours, so the air still retained coolness. But he was sweating. He would sweat until he had the seeker in the White Tower.

"Have I ever lied to you, Sir Reginald?" Desperation had crept into her voice. He saw white knuckles as one of her hands gripped the other.

"Nay." She had never lied. And she usually faced crisis with utter calm. Even during that terrible autumn of 1483, with her life in daily peril as she conspired to overthrow the crouchback, she had amazed him with her aplomb. What he saw now was anxiety edging toward hysteria. Since she was neither addled nor lackwit, the threat which had driven her first to deceive her son, then try to thwart him, and now beg to join in inquisition must be both real and mortal.

Again he shuddered. And as he quivered, he cursed himself.

She was winning. She always won.

He made a final, half hearted attempt to keep her at bay. "Verily, my lady, you are not needed here. A dozen of my men will know him on sight."

"He will have altered his appearance. Your men will also become confused, the more faces they study."

Bray wished he had seen the man himself. He knew the King would ask why he remained in the Tower when word came the seeker had been found. Bray would say he feared the populace would recognize him, and cause a stir that would alert the seeker. He hoped the King would in turn say Bray acted wisely.

Best, though, he had the seeker in custody by the time His Grace arrived from Eltham. Then the King would overlook much.

Bray yielded. What did it matter if Lady Margaret were the one to ferret out the seeker? He too worried that his men might miss the right man. He had sternly warned they follow the seeker at a distance no closer than a hundred paces, and yea, the seeker would now guise himself. They might well have need of Lady Margaret's gift.

"Have you ever been below in the White Tower?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I know it is not pleasant."

"Verily. Two remain there from the first lot we brought in. My men are divided as to which is the seeker. The two do look similar. Mayhap you can decide."

"I will know instantly."

Bray bit off a retort. This marvelously able and learned woman was not arrogant. But the self-assurance that mimed arrogance often proved just as maddening.

"We will see. Come, Lady Margaret."

A babble of voices turned their heads toward the Garden Tower. There, through the archway, Yeomen of the Guard were herding a fresh batch of aliens into the Tower grounds. The scarlet livery and black hats of the Yeomen stood vividly against the gray crenelated walls behind them. The score or so aliens were clad the full gamut, from gentleman's attire to the rags of the beggar.

The aliens shuffled forward, prodded by the butts of halberds. The aliens looked none too happy; their countenance would grow sourer as they went below. Then sourness would change to fear as the questioning began in earnest.

He pulled out his pomander. "Come, Lady Margaret. Let us both aid the King."

**M** argaret pressed her own pomander tight. The bag, fortified with oil of pennyroyal, permitted only a trace of the odors to reach her nostrils. Still she could identify all the noxious excretions of the body as she descended into the lower chambers of the White Tower.

She had to watch her footing on the staircase, whose stone steps were difficult to discern in the flickering torchlight. Fortunately she had Sir Reginald's steady arm to help guide her.

She would not mind if the lighting were worse in the rooms below. She would not need sight to identify the seeker, and her eyes were not eager to view the misery surely present.

Normally she disdained torture. She believed it an utterly unreliable method of obtaining the truth. She had for years advised Henry to dismiss his Gascon torturers. True, Henry did not often resort to them, and their mere presence made men think twice about plotting against him. But would not men admit to anything, invent anything, when glowing irons were applied to the flesh?

Worse, inflicting pain diminished those who inflicted and the one who ordered the infliction. All her life she had sought the uplifting of man's soul and intellect. Torture was the province of He who ruled the underworld. It was no coincidence these detestable chambers resided at the bottom of buildings.

Yet when in a battle for survival, all tools must be used.

The pomander worked less well once they reached the bottom. Sir Reginald led her down a dank corridor. Several warders, men who looked every bit the cutthroat, bowed as she and Bray approached a cell on the right.

"This is the first," said Bray. "He gives his name as Gunter Rass. Supposedly a resident of the Steelyard. From the Hanse." He pointed to a whimpering man in the cell. The man, with arms bound behind his back, dangled from a rope tied to his wrists. Agony distorted his badly bruised face. Agony produced by the slow dislocation of his shoulders.

But that was not what upset her.

"Sir Reginald, how do you expect to identify anyone if you allow blows to the face? No wonder your men are in dispute."

"He fought, my lady. He gave the Yeomen quite a chase, then he injured two with a stave. This wretch is fortunate he was not brought here on the point of a halberd."

She wanted to snap it must be expected aliens would not easily submit to seizure. They knew the rights of Englishmen did not apply to them. They also endured everyday the hostility of her countrymen, who barely tolerated them. Yes, they would run at the prospect of a visit to the Tower.

She addressed the man in German. "Where were you born?"

The black haired, heavy jawed man with the broken nose rasped: "Bremen. My lady, help me. I am innocent."

Margaret let out an exasperated sigh. "Release him. He is not the one."

"What did he say?"

"That he is who he states, and that he will remain so even if he hangs here a fortnight."

"Insolent pup. By evening his tune will have changed."

Sir Reginald possessed many fine qualities, but discerning subtle sarcasm was not one of them.

"Let him go, Sir Reginald. By all the saints I swear he is not the seeker. His tongue acquits him."

Bray looked reluctant. "Simon—he is one of my best men—he also swears on all the saints this is the man followed."

"Then they followed the wrong man."

"I cannot just release him. What if your ears deceive you? The beating and the pain could distort his voice."

"Keep him if you must. But cut him down. And treat him decently, for he will bring no harm to my Henry."

Bray gave the order. The warders lowered the man to the floor. In German the man babbled his thanks to Margaret.

"Where is the second one?"

"Down here, my lady. Another dog from the Hanse."

Not a good time to be an Easterling in London, she thought.

"I trust he fared better at the hands of the Yeomen."

He had. A well-dressed man sat forlornly on straw in a corner. He too sported a heavy jaw and thick black hair. But no bruises.

"This one came quietly. He claims he is a citizen of Danzig, in London to contract for tin."

Margaret arched an eyebrow. Bristol, not London, was the shipment port for tin.

"Stand." She addressed him in English.

The man in the fine green doublet scrambled to his feet. "Noble lady, I am falsely accused. I beseech you to carry word of my plight to your noble son, Henry by the grace of God King of England."

"You know who I am?"

"Oh, yes, my lady. I have been in England many times. Four years ago I saw you in a procession at Westminster."

The man spoke excellent, if heavily accented, English. The accent was not German. Nor Flemish. Nor Norse. But it was not what she was looking for. Still, she was curious.

"Why do you seek tin in London, not Bristol?"

The man from Danzig explained he had money but no ship. Many ships bound for the Baltic left London less than full. A few departed much under laden. "If I can convince one to make for Bristol, I avoid the expense of bringing a vessel to England. The captain will gain, too, because I will pay above rate to carry my tin."

A good story, whether true or not. And she did not quite believe him. But he was not the one.

She turned grimly to Bray. "Neither man is the seeker. He remains at large."

Now it was Bray's turn for exasperation.

"That cannot be."

"Mayhap he is in the lot we saw come in."

Bray started pacing again.

"I must hold both these men. But, yea, let us have a look at the fresh lot."

**M** argaret watched as Bray had the aliens assembled in a line against the east wall of the White Tower. There the sun could fully light them. First Sir Reginald had his own men, the ones who had followed the seeker, step before each face.

Margaret could see that Bray's men lacked confidence, now that the King's mother had rejected the two prime suspects. Yet she was sure they had not been that wrong. The seeker undoubtedly possessed black hair and a strong jaw.

She saw three aliens in the line of thirty-two that matched the requirement. One wore satin, the other two russet. But Bray's men did not pick any of the three. Instead, they hesitantly decided on a rather tall gentleman with dark brown hair at the very end of the line.

Bray gave orders for this man to be led below.

"Hold!" Margaret shouted out the command, and everyone went stiff. She stepped quickly to the first of her three suspects.

"Your name."

The russet clad man answered in German that he did not understand.

She moved to the second man. This one smelled worse than the first suspect, had a day's growth of beard, and regarded her with astonished eyes. Despite the beard stubble and the grime, a handsome—if roughly hewn—face lay beneath.

"Your name."

He garbled something. The teeth of this filthy man gleamed. He lacked not a one.

"Your name, sir."

A guttural answer of "verstehe Sie nicht".

She stepped to the suspect in satin.

"Your name."

"Walther Prinz. My lady, I—"

She turned to Bray and pointed to the man in satin. "The seeker."

**A** s the barge neared the Tower, Henry could see Bray waiting for him on the wharf before St. Thomas's Gate. There was no sign of his mother.

Well for her. This time she had gone too far. He would wait until he had completely calmed, then he would confront her. He was tempted to ban her permanently from court. He knew he wouldn't, but the mere thought brought him delicious satisfaction.

Age certainly had not diminished her cunning. He could almost admire the audacity of her counter stroke. She had nearly succeeded, too, in snaring the seeker under the very noses of his men. He doubted the seeker would have survived to face his own inquisitors; after his mother extracted the information she needed, the seeker would have succumbed to "an untimely fall" or even "pure melancholy".

Sir Reginald was not beaming, but he did look relieved. Henry too had been relieved when Bray's courier reached him just as the barge was about to embark. That they had this slippery man in their clutches took the knot out of his chest; that his mother—Bray was ever honest—had alone unmasked the seeker dropped the knot to his stomach. Again this chronic meddler had proved indispensable.

A moment of comedy lightened his mood as Yeomen on the wharf and Yeomen on the boat competed to moor the barge. Several knocked heads and one man tumbled into the water. Then everyone went to one knee and doffed their caps as Henry stepped onto the landing.

After the drenched Yeoman climbed out of the Thames, he apologized profusely for his clumsiness. Henry evoked a chorus of genuine laughter when he said the man had done only what the rest of them heartily desired: escape this damnable heat. Though the sun had lowered in the western sky, its flame still tormented. Henry pledged he would never curse winter again.

"Well, Sir Reginald, we have the right man?"

"I believe so, Your Grace. After we cleaned him, and dressed him as he was clad before, all agreed he was the one they followed."

"Do you have doubts?"

"I cannot be entirely certain, since I never saw him myself. As a precaution I have kept four other men. Two my men picked before Lady Margaret arrived, and two were in the three Lady Margaret questioned."

"Why did she choose this one?"

"She said she could tell by his tongue." Bray shrugged apologetically. "You know her gift."

"Aye." The gift had proved unerring, if unsettling. "Where is he lodged?"

"In one of the upper chambers of the White Tower. Under heavy guard, of course."

"Good. We want this man healthy. For the moment."

"Ah, Your Grace..."

"Yes?"

"Your mother—she practically got on her knees begging to speak to the seeker—in private."

"You did not—"

"Nay, Your Grace. I sent her back to Coldharbour."

Henry repressed a snort. No one sent his mother anywhere. And she would be back. Then she would be begging her son, in a manner more akin to brow beating.

"Have you questioned him?"

"I was waiting until you arrived."

Henry considered marching to the White Tower. But he was tired, hot, and hungry. He would go on to Westminster. Let the seeker stew overnight. The wait would help loosen his tongue.

The important thing was they had him. The seeker was no longer free to work whatever mischief he had been about in the City. Which he would reveal on the morrow, one way or the other.

"As always, you have served me well, Sir Reginald. I know you are eager to make for Windsor. We will shortly settle this matter, and you can return to your noble labor." Sir Reginald was a fine administrator, but an even better builder. He was transforming St. George's Chapel into an edifice of wonder.

Bray bowed. "Whatever charge my gracious lord places on me, I am honored. I will serve you till my last breath."

From another man the words would have smacked of the toady; Sir Reginald meant them. Again Henry thanked God He had bequeathed him men like Bray and John Morton. And, yea, women like his mother. Without their unflinching devotion and courage he would at best still be a penniless supplicant at court in Brittany. At worst his head would have long ago adorned a pike on London Bridge gate in the continuing reign of Richard III.

Henry told Bray he would be back tomorrow after prime. He turned to go. Then he stopped and did not move.

"Your Grace, are you stricken?"

"She may play with us, Sir Reginald."

"What say you, my lord?"

"Does it not strike you as strange my mother would freely hand us this man?"

"She had no choice. She dared not see him loose again."

"I begin to think that is what she wants."

"I do not understand, Your Grace."

"Yes. She has deliberately given us the wrong man."

Consternation flooded Bray's face. "That cannot be!"

"I believe she has." Henry stifled his own consternation. He must think coolly now, and not let rancor cloud his deliberation. Cunning must be met with even greater cunning.

"If she fears this man so," said Bray, "she would prefer he be in our custody than not in custody at all."

"She fears this man for a reason. A reason she seems determined not to let us learn. And how could we not learn now, with the seeker in the cellar of the White Tower?"

"We will, Your Grace."

"You admit you had your doubts as to this man."

"Only because Lady Margaret's ears might betray her. Not because I thought she would try to mislead us."

"That is what she has attempted from the start of this affair."

Bray nodded reluctantly.

"Sir Reginald, you were very prudent to hold those other men. I believe I see to the bottom of my mother's scheming. We would have applied the instruments to the one she threw us. He would have broken and admitted to any accusation as to why he sought William Slaughter: conspiracy, sedition, high treason. We would have then released the true seeker—and Lady Margaret would have pounced once he left the Tower. I imagine her minions lurk outside even now."

Bray ruminated, then he sagged. "Yea, it is possible. And I did not begin to consider this dastardly turn."

"Sorrow not, Sir Reginald, for my mother is frightfully wily. You held the others. That is enough."

"We will apply the instruments to them all."

"Only last two, actually. The first two you can release. Only when she had found her prey would she point to another."

"Two, then. It will go quicker."

"No. Do not torture. At least at first. Dress one like the seeker. Then under heavy guard present him to Elizabeth Brackenbury at the Minories. Your report said she spent an hour with the seeker. By her reaction you will see whether he is the one. If not, it is the other. And pry from her what they talked about. Induce with however many pounds necessary."

He could not, and would not bring the force of the realm against a woman in a convent. However, since she was not professed she needed coin to remain there.

"Aye, Your Grace."

"I know you are weary. The past days have been long. But fail me not in this, Sir Reginald. After all the worry this seeker and my mother have caused, their shared secret must not slip from us."

"By Saint Paul, I will not fail."

As the barge pulled from the pier and headed towards Westminster, Henry's anger returned. She had no right to act the puppeteer with him.

He knew his mother loved him, but he also knew she considered him the first stone in the building of her dynasty. Her grandson Arthur would provide the next stone, and all the heirs that followed would add to the mighty tower named Tudor. The tower would rise into the glory that she promised awaited those that carried her blood.

He loved and respected his mother. He knew she would give her life for his own. Yet he was the one who ruled. He was one who had taken this crown and kept it.

It was he who had spent the prime of his life exiled in France while she remained in England. He endured those years in poverty while she had lived in luxury. As the wife of high peers of the realm she had lived in relative safety, while as the last hope of Lancaster he daily faced Yorkist kidnap or murder. He had survived by his own wits, and his own determination, in the face of constant setback.

Above all, it was not she who had marched to the field at Bosworth. There certain death awaited him, not her, if defeated. That terrible and great day he had stood his ground. And won a kingdom.

Death tried hard to take him at Bosworth. It was the only time of his life he had known pure terror. Felling men twice his size, the usurper in black armor had hewed his way toward Henry. The crouchback closed to an axe length before he was struck down. Very much had Henry wanted to spur his horse and flee.

Yet he had stood. His horse backed not a step. All in the body guarding him so witnessed, and after the battle word of his steadfastness spread to the whole army. And afterwards to the entire kingdom. That day he, not his mother, earned by right of that steadfastness the throne of England.

And he, not his mother, would retain that throne in the face of this seeker or any other threat.

Chapter 5

**W** ard had traveled the Thames many times, but never in a boat propelled by oars. He sat battling fear as the silt suffused river glided past. He was bound hand and foot, and shared this bench near the rear of the boat with two giant Yeomen. They ostensibly had their arms linked with his to prevent him from jumping out, but Ward was all too aware that upon command from Bray the same arms could flick him overboard. Ward had long ago decided he never wanted to die by drowning.

In the center of the long, narrow boat sat Reginald Bray. The man had not stopped glowering since he fetched Ward from his surprisingly comfortable cell at dawn. When Ward asked their destination, Bray had only hissed: "Shut thy mouth." He wondered if Bray did have orders to dispose of him by water. Slip a couple stones into his doublet and he would sink from view forever. Like the Princes had probably met their end.

Despite himself Ward began to quiver. He knew the Yeomen holding him had to detect it. All his life he had countered fear with counterattack. Now, however, circumstance denied him that option.

They were headed upriver. Probably towards Westminster and an "interview" with the king. Henry did like to interrogate state prisoners himself. Of course afterward a lot of them ended on the gallows.

Oh Christ, he was in deep shit now. He knew he was taking a risk prowling London with questions about Will Slaughter. But he had no conception he was poking a stick into a hornet nest. And how the hornets had come flying out. He wondered if the City had ever seen such a frenzied manhunt.

Yesterday, in the lineup, he had recognized Lady Margaret Beaufort instantly. She looked exactly like her portraits and her effigy in Westminster Abbey. Reginald Bray remained a puzzle until one of the warders informed Ward of his identity. Ward later decided, yes, this pug nosed man with the graying hair did somewhat resemble his stained glass image in Malvern Priory.

Though a good two heads shorter than Bray, Lady Margaret was the one who had chilled his blood. Her axe face and piercing eyes and ramrod posture would intimidate anyone. Those tautly pursed lips also made a person want to head the other way.

In the lineup how had she known he was the one? She had certainly never set eyes on him, while those who had tailed him he fooled with his wretch's disguise. And what was she doing there, anyway? These days she was supposed to be occupied with charitable works and running the lives of the royal children.

When she fingered the gentleman in satin he thought himself in the clear. His spirits sank when Bray ordered him held. But he figured, or hoped, Bray was just covering his ass and that release would come by the end of the day. His trepidation grew as afternoon turned to evening. Then as darkness completely fell Bray tersely informed him that he would be held indefinitely.

His guards later told him the whole story: how the King's men had tracked him, how Lady Margaret sought to trap him with a bogus William Slaughter, how she deliberately chose another in the lineup, and how Bray used Elizabeth Brackenbury and the process of elimination to finally identify him.

Ward wondered if he should stick to the story he laid on Mistress Elizabeth. On the surface it was certainly not a capital crime, or any crime at all, to be looking for Black Will. After they saw he was no threat—fortunately he had time after the escape to hide her deposition—they might settle for booting him out of the country. He was after all an alien.

He could give it a try, but it was probably wishful thinking. King Henry was hypersensitive about the fate of the Princes, as he should be. Pretenders and rumors of pretenders had tormented him since his coronation, and led to two encounters on the battlefield since Bosworth. The battle at Stoke was an especially close run.

It would be tempting for Henry to dismiss Ward's claim of serving a Lithuanian lord and instead tag him with full-blown conspiracy. Warbeck was going to swing at Tyburn, so for good measure why not add Ward? As an example as to any who threatened his reign, whether of ill intention or not.

The oarsmen were putting their backs into it, but the receding tide was making progress upriver slow. The Strand inched by, and finally the bend of river revealed the Palace of Westminster in the distance.

Bray had moved close. The hostility in his face had not diminished. Ward tried to meet the hard eyes with hard ones of his own.

"Whoever you truly be, you will shortly find yourself in audience with my lord the King. Think not for a moment you can speak falsely. I myself will apply the hot irons if you do."

"I assure you—"

"Shut thy mouth. Just listen. You will not repeat the tale told to Elizabeth Brackenbury. The Lady Margaret would not hunger for your hide if you sought only to satisfy the curiosity of an old baron. My lord has sported with many like you, and he can spot the liar quickly. He just has to nod to me and you will be dragged out and given to the men from Gascony. Who be master at iron, whip, and rack. Now nod to me if you understand."

Ward nodded. And quivered anew.

**T** he boat did not dock at Westminster, but at Lambeth Palace instead. After they hoisted him ashore they freed his feet. Ward was grateful the Yeomen kept their arms linked with his for he found his legs unsteady. Bray disappeared into the palace.

As Ward and the Yeomen waited the clock across the river at Westminster boomed seven times. He wondered if it tolled for him.

He did not understand why they had landed at Lambeth, but he now knew not to ask questions. This was the residence of John Morton, a.k.a. Lord Chancellor and Archbishop of Canterbury. Was the Cardinal to interrogate in place of the King? If so, Ward knew his predicament had not lessened. He could be hard put to deceive this master conspirator with the steel trap mind.

Bray beckoned and they led him into the palace, a crenellated brick building with flanking towers connected by arched gateways. A long chamber topped the gateways. In that room, the Cardinal's audience chamber, his fate would likely be decided.

The wainscoted chamber with coffer ceiling was empty when they entered. Bray placed him on a bench in the center of the room. Opposite him on the tiled floor stood a hefty oak table, behind which waited a high backed chair flanked by two smaller ones. On the far wall hung a large crest, bearing the emblem of a miter.

At Bray's order the Yeomen untied his hands but again bound his feet. Sunlight from the high arched window fell on Ward and he did not have to worry any more about shivering as moisture formed on his brow.

The chamber door opposite swung open. Without formality the King of England strode in followed by an ancient man in cardinal's garb. Ward was yanked to his feet, then forced to kneel—as did the others in the room.

Ward stared at Henry Tudor. He too looked just like his portraits: wedge shaped head, tightly drawn mouth, pale skin, vigilant eyes. He also looked every inch a king. This man had command presence.

No portraits of Morton were extant, but he also exuded authority despite his advanced years. Age spots mottled his face and his thin hair was snow white. A cataract appeared to cloud the left eye. His hands trembled—but certainly not from fear.

"Seat the prisoner," the King ordered. Ward was shoved back onto the bench. Then Henry Tudor ordered everyone else out except Bray and Morton.

The Cardinal spoke, his voice weak. Morton looked pitifully frail, which hardly surprised Ward. The man was nearly eighty—an incredible longevity in this era. But his good eye brimmed with intelligence and alertness. Ward bet his mind was still sharp as the executioner's axe.

"I hear you seek the overthrow of our glorious sovereign."

Ward blanched. "Your Eminence, nothing could be further from the truth. I have always favored Tudor—and Lancaster."

"Then favor us with your given name." Back at the Tower Ward had tried to pass a Lithuanian one to Bray.

Ward gave quick thought to another alias, and discarded it as quickly.

"Roger Ward."

"An English name. But you do not speak with the sound of an Englishman."

"My ancestors were from England."

The King, head held high and back kept ruler straight, watched from the center chair with his trademark suspicion. Bray scowled. The Cardinal, however, leaned forward in an almost friendly manner.

"Mayhap. Do you have but the truth for us this day, Roger Ward?"

He probably didn't have a choice; he couldn't deceive this troika. But would they accept the truth? John Morton and Henry Tudor were probably the two least gullible men on this island. And Bray already distrusted him.

He would have a hell of a selling job

"Your Grace...Your Eminence, I have much to say. But you will not believe me."

Bray sat back in disgust. Henry Tudor continued to warily regard him. Morton offered a smile.

"Speak your truth. Leave it to us to decide what to believe."

Ward drew the deepest breath of his life. And began.

"I come not from Lithuania, but a land far to the west of England."

"Iceland?"

"Much further west."

He let that sink in. The trio exchanged looks. Finally the King asked, "The New Found Land?"

"Yes." That relieved Ward; at least this admission registered in their realm of possibility. The next admission, however, would not.

He breathed deeply again. "I also come from a time far beyond your own."

"Speak plainly," said the King.

"I am from a time five hundred years later than yours." To be exact, five hundred five years and two weeks later.

Ward waited for an explosion. One that would summon the Yeomen of the Guard to haul him away. Instead the trio mulled.

"Go on," Morton at last said.

"I—I labor in my time as a historian. In your terms, an antiquarian. I seek answers about the past, your time in particular. The answer I seek most fervently is what happened to the sons of Edward IV. In my time we are as uncertain as you. That is why I came here."

"How did you get here?" asked Morton. "Did you bargain with the Antichrist?"

Ward began to realize that slipping between centuries was not an unimaginable possibility for these men. In this age before science, divine—or not so divine—intervention could explain much.

But he stuck to the truth, his only refuge now. "There is a place in Wales, in a wood not far from Haverfordwest, where a man can pass between your time and mine. This is how I made that journey."

The gray-blue eyes of Henry Tudor had widened. But the king who sat erectly said nothing.

"Who else knows of this?" asked Morton.

"As far as I know only one man is privy—a man named Donald Jeffress. He was aware of my desire for any tidings about the Princes. He wrote me saying he had letters from your time that proved Richard III ordered Buckingham to kill the Princes. I immediately fl—I traveled fast across the Western Ocean to see these documents."

Ward's throat was getting dry. He enviously eyed the flacon of wine on the table. Morton noticed and said, "I think we all could use a sip or two." Bray hopped up to pour into jewel encrusted cups. Ward knew it about killed Bray to hand the prisoner one.

With his whistle wet, Ward continued. "When I reached Jeffress I found he had no letters. He was in a nursing home—an almshouse. He could move nothing below his neck. I was very angry he had lied, but then he told me of the place in Wales. At first I of course did not believe him. Yet as he talked it was obvious he was either the greatest antiquarian alive or he had actually dwelled in your time."

"And how did he come to know of this place?" asked the King. Henry Tudor spoke with lips barely parting. It was written he abhorred his lack of teeth. Ward could see the few remaining were black.

"As Jeffress explained it, this passage had been a secret of the Druids in Wales from ancient times. Only a few of their order, less than a half a dozen, were allowed this secret in each generation. They were known as Keepers, and he was one.

"He said a fellow Keeper wanted the knowledge for himself, for the power it would give, so he set about killing the others. Jeffress escaped through the passage. He assumed this Keeper killed everyone else."

"Who was this man?" asked Morton. "Did Jeffress say?"

"No. I pressed, but he wouldn't tell me."

"It had to be my grandfather," said Henry Tudor in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Your Grace?" said Morton. They all turned amazed eyes on the King of England. Silence reigned in the chamber until the King spoke again. He stared into the air behind Ward.

"When I was four, my grandfather said he had seen I would be king. He told me to never doubt that, come what may. I do not remember much of my life at that time, but his words stayed with me. As the years revealed the truth of those words, I wondered how he knew."

"Your Grace," said Morton, "he may have seen this in a vision."

"I think not. Unlike my mother, he never claimed special favor with God. Or so Uncle Jasper has told me."

Ward thought furiously. Could it be possible? Owen Tudor hailed from Wales. And he would have been a contemporary of Jeffress. And he was a man skilled with the sword.

Ward cleared his throat. "Your Grace, you may be right. If so, your mother—"

"Yea," said the King. Ward watched as hot blood turned the alabaster skin of Henry Tudor crimson. "She knows. He must have told her. That is her gift of sight."

But she obviously had not informed her son

Ward wondered why not. Maybe she decided it was best the secret died with her. Knowledge of events to come, and the ability to change those one did not like, was dangerous knowledge. She might trust the judgement of her son, but not those later to come in her line. Especially her hot headed grandson, the Harry of six wives and many judicial murders

Morton was pressing together his fingertips. "This is why she wanted to keep Roger Ward from us."

The King nodded grimly. "And to force from him the name of the Keeper."

Which he would not have been able to withhold, thought Ward. He would have yielded it under torture. Oh God, if her men had succeeded in kidnapping him.

Terror began to seep back into his bones. If the Lady Margaret had wanted to eliminate those who knew of the passage between the centuries, why would not Morton and Henry? Once Ward divulged location of the passage—which he must to the men from Gascony—his life expectancy could probably be measured in hours. He had to come up with something to stay their hand.

"Your Grace—"

"Silence!" shouted Bray. "Speak only when spoken to."

Morton waved his hand. "What is it, Roger Ward?"

"Owen Tudor died in 1461. So we have to assume Lady Margaret knew of the passage prior to that date. Once she crossed to my time she would have access to our chronicles, which would spell out all the events in the struggle between York and Lancaster from 1461 forward. Including the death of Edward IV." Which precipitated the usurpation by his brother Richard.

"Yea, that is now obvious."

Ward was thinking fast, as he must, without benefit of circumspection. Something potent tried to birth from the back of his mind, but it was hung in labor. He had to stay on the offensive and give it time to exit. He hoped whatever was formulating would give them reason not to kill him.

"She would have learned from our chronicles that the Princes disappeared and were presumably murdered. I think that as a woman, a mother, and an extremely pious person, she would have found that hard to accept."

Morton's eyes had narrowed, while the King's had not.

Ward rushed on. "I do not believe she would have entered into the conspiracy to gain the throne if she knew doing so would lead to their deaths."

"It was too late to save them then." For the first time Morton spoke with an edge to his voice. "They were already in the Tower."

Ward steeled himself. "Your Eminence, I gained scorn when I proposed this in my time. I may here too, but I believe that you and she began your conspiracy in the months before the death of Edward IV. And at that time you talked the Duke of Buckingham into joining you. Buckingham was to play Richard, and you two played Buckingham."

Ward got the reaction he feared. But it was from Bray, not Morton. "That is sedition! You will have your tongue cut out."

Morton kept silent.

Very softly the King of England asked, "Does he speak sedition, John? Or too much the truth?"

Morton hunched in his chair. He would not look his king in the eye.

"Lord Cardinal?"

"Yea, it was as he said."

The King rose from his chair. "Then why was I not told? First my mother deceives me, and now I learn so have you."

"It was for the love of you, Henry, we kept this from your ears—and those of everyone else. If it became the fame that we used Richard to remove the Princes your crown would have no legitimacy. It can never become known."

A thrill had risen in Ward at Morton's admission. He was proved right at last. The thrill dived at the words "it can never become known". Now he knew two deadly state secrets.

Henry Tudor glared a while longer at the brilliant co-conspirator that had put him in power. Then he sat down.

Ward spurred himself. Keep talking, keep them engaged. "Your Eminence, I cannot believe that the Lady Margaret would have thought she would escape God's wrath if your conspiracy led to the death of the Princes. She must have voiced her dread on this matter."

"She did. But that is none of your concern." Coldness formed in Morton's good eye. The Cardinal would suffer no quirk of conscience if it came to getting rid of him. Ward wasn't a kid.

But he was almost home. His heart hammered as realization dawned. It was insane, but it explained everything. "We all now know what Robert Brackenbury told his daughter. That the Princes were carried in sacks onto Buckingham's barge. And that Buckingham was foolish, or warped enough, to have brought along his son." Ward sat up straight as he could. "I propose that was not his son, but Lady Margaret."

"Now you do speak sedition."

"Do I, Your Eminence? How else could she be certain Buckingham would not kill the Princes? Remember that this child was sighted after the moon set, and in the dark a person of Lady Margaret's short stature could easily pass for one."

The King turned to Morton. "Is this more that you are keeping from me?"

"Nay. It was little Edward Stafford on that boat. It had to be."

"Would he really let a boy be privy to such a crime?" asked the King.

Morton sighed. And said nothing.

Ward ventured more. "I think Lady Margaret went down river with Buckingham, and later transferred the Princes to another boat. She then had the Princes taken out of England. To Iceland, Norway, maybe even beyond the Hanse. She wanted them out of the reach of Richard—and probably you, Your Maj—Your Grace. That would be the only way to keep them alive and her soul away from the fires of hell."

"There is no proof to any of this," said Reginald Bray. "You spin this tale to save your neck."

"What he says is possible," said Henry Tudor.

"Your Grace, there is no way to know," said Bray. "We cannot haul in your mother and apply the instruments to her."

"I am tempted."

Morton gasped and brought a hand over his chest. Ward thought he was having a heart attack. Then John Morton, always quicker than anyone else, announced: "She took them through the passage to the other time. Where they would truly be safe. They dwell there as we speak."

Chapter 6

**A** s the two of them sat under the center canopy of his gilded barge, Henry could not stop staring at the teeth of Roger Ward. They were the finest he had ever seen. White and straight, in perfect proportion, and every one accounted for.

"In your time do all have such a good mouth as yours?"

"Most, Your Grace. At least in the lands of prosperity."

"Even the commoners?"

"Aye, Your Grace. Something is put in the water to help. And we have special physicians to fix teeth that go bad."

Henry shook his head. He was king, yet his own mouth had fared little better than that of a beggar.

Only one person owned teeth that approached the grandeur of this misplaced antiquarian: his lady mother. Henry had always thought God had so blessed her because of her excessive piety. It was plain now these "special physicians" worked that miracle.

Enough of teeth. "Master Ward, we must come to complete agreement. I detected hesitancy."

The man with the raven black hair turned on the damask covered couch to face him squarely.

"Your Maj—Your Grace, I am willing to help deliver the Princes. But I must be assured they will not end as Richard III intended. Or, in lieu of death, quartered where they—to quote one of your own chroniclers—'see neither sun nor moon'. "

"This is the second time you address me as 'Your Maj'. Why?"

Henry refused an offer of wine from a page. Ward however accepted another cup. The man had not stopped sipping since they left Lambeth.

"Ah—the full address is Your Majesty. Your son will adopt this form, and all future English monarchs will be so addressed."

Haughty, thought Henry. Not at all like Arthur. Of course, when a man became king a constant battle ensued to fight pride.

"You are not in position to dictate how I will dispose of the Princes. They are, after all, grown men now. And a mortal threat to my reign."

"I can only remind you that Richard III lost all support because everyone thought he had killed them. And it is recorded that the deed—he must have believed his orders carried out—greatly tormented him. The same woes could befall you."

Henry repressed a grimace. It was more and more likely he would have to execute the Earl of Warrick, up till now his only legitimate rival. No matter the poor lad was feebleminded. Ferdinand and Isabella were adamant. They would not betroth Katherine to Arthur unless they were certain no other claimants to the English throne existed.

So how could he spare Edward Plantagenet, whom his own Act of Settlement had declared a rightful king of England? Or Edward's brother Richard, next in line?

Yet Roger Ward did not raise an idle point. The blood of the Princes would not wash off easily. He could probably keep their deaths a secret during his reign, but not forever. Such a crime must eventually out. It could grievously wound the ability of his heirs to rule effectively. It might even lead to the toppling of the dynasty.

"I propose this, Master Ward. You have my word—which I will swear on any holy relic—that Edward and Richard will not be put to death. Nor will I suffer them to dwell in a crypt. I will send them beyond the Hanse, perhaps far away as the domain of the Tartars. However, if they dare return to my kingdom, I will do away with them instantly. Is this sufficient?"

It galled Henry to have to bargain with this man who, by his own words, was ill regarded in his own time. But who else would guide Bray and his men while in an unknown realm?

Ward nodded. "You will not regret that choice. You will rest much easier."

Henry almost backhanded him. How dare Ward presume upon the conscience of a king? Yet he let his face reveal nothing.

"So it is settled?"

"Aye, Your Majesty."

Henry had to admit he liked the salutation. He would leave it to Arthur, though, to command the usage.

"It is hard to believe you do not ask for a barrel of gold. I am amazed you want only paper."

"Parchment, Your Majesty. That is most important."

This was a strange man. John Morton was to provide a testament detailing the conspiracy to gain the crown, and Henry was to provide a writ bearing his signature and the privy seal. The writ would order a chest with the bones of two boys to be buried under a staircase beside the Chapel at the White Tower.

"Parchment, Master Ward."

The wine flushed face of Roger Ward beamed. "I thank you with all my heart, gracious lord, founder of the most important dynasty in history. I have always considered you one of England's supreme monarchs. Others dispute this, but I have seen it confirmed with my own eyes."

Henry had always been suspicious of flattery. Who except for mother to child offered praise without hope of gain? But he could tell the man was sincere.

"So it is true what my lady mother has always said, that I and my heirs will bring glory to England?"

"Aye, and doubly aye, Your Majesty. Triumph beyond imagination. England, and the country she gives birth to across the Western Ocean, will both light the world and repeatedly save it."

Henry had never quite believed his mother. He often thought her declarations half hope, half lunacy. But this man confirmed her. And of course, she had been to the time of glory herself.

Ward continued. "I should not tell you too much. But your son will become the 'Hinge of History'. That is what I term him. Others belittled this, but it is self evident."

"He has the making of a fine king. I am most pleased to hear Arthur will rule well."

Joy fled the face of Roger Ward and he looked away. In the abrupt silence all Henry could hear was the steady slap of oars as the tide sped barge surged toward Windsor.

"What troubles you, Master Ward?"

"Nothing, Sire. A small pain in my head."

"Look at me. I command it."

Ward was trying to don a mask of nonchalance. He failed. "I did not sleep well last night. As you might understand."

"You will sleep less well if you are not forthcoming. What troubles you? Does something happen to Arthur?"

Roger Ward regarded him with the same sad eyes he had seen in his mastiffs when they knew they had done something wrong.

"Not Arthur," Henry whispered.

"I was clumsy, Your Majesty. Please forgive me. I should have said nothing."

Henry sat dumbfounded. This could not be. Arthur was his pride and joy.

"You lie," he said, though he knew the man opposite him did not lie.

How would he bear this? How would Bessy bear it when the time did come? She loved Arthur, their first born, even more than he.

"You must promise—you must swear, Your Majesty—to proceed as if you did not know."

"I must promise? I must swear?"

Ward nodded vigorously. "For the sake of the glory. You must go ahead with the marriage of Arthur to Katherine of Aragon. It is essential."

"How long?" He now eyed Ward with loathing. He wanted to maim him, kill him.

The man exhaled deeply. "Four years, Your Majesty. But you must act as if you believed he were to live his three score and ten."

"Do not again tell me how I must act."

"I pray pardon, but you must tell no one else. Not even John Morton. The secret cannot escape. You are a wise man, and you must yield to that wisdom now. Even in the grief I have regrettably caused you."

Henry stared agape at the marvelously insolent man. No wonder Ward was so scorned in his time. How had he avoided someone dashing his brains out?

"I am sorry, Your Majesty. I very much wish I could take back my words. I would not cause you sorrow for anything."

"But you have."

"At least now you can treasure every moment with him."

"How does he die?" Mayhap it could be prevented.

"Disease, Your Majesty."

Henry hung his head. His reign had begun in pestilence, and now the same evil would strike down his only heir fit to rule. God preserve the kingdom if tantrum ridden Harry must now ascend.

Then the gloom lifted ever so slightly. "Is Harry truly to be this Hinge of History?"

"Very much so, Your Majesty. I dare not tell you how, but assuredly he will. Incomparable glory follows."

"What will he do so grand? Win back France?"

"Please do not force me on this matter. I will say he will be famous forever."

Little flame-haired Harry. He was martial—and frightfully willful. Qualities apt for a conqueror. But not ones necessarily suiting he who must administer justice.

Yet this was God's will. So he, Henry Tudor—King of England but still His humble and impotent servant—must accept.

He did now hate this intruder into his kingdom. He could never be fully happy again because of the black tidings so carelessly revealed on the Thames this afternoon. This fumbler best note the words Ward as antiquarian surely knew: the wrath of the king is death.

**A** nother inn in another town beckoned as twilight gathered. No doubt Margaret's escort longed for rest, but she and they would sleep in the saddle. She would make Portsmouth by dawn tomorrow, no matter what.

She must beat Bray and this man called Roger Ward to the time ahead. Once there she must beat them to the Princes. For if she did not the world was condemned to return to the abomination she had witnessed four decades before.

This morning at Windsor she had tried to warn Henry, but her pleas were brushed aside as if babbled by a child. She could not break through his icy formality. It would have been better if he had raged at her. Instead he just kept dispassionately lying.

The seeker died under torture at the Tower, her son insisted. The Gasconers were careful, but apparently the man possessed a weak heart.

Henry went on to claim that the seeker was a disaffected Yorkist named Roger Ward. Before he died, the seeker confessed to living many years at the court of Margaret of Burgundy, the sister of Richard III and sworn enemy of Tudor. Which, said Henry, would explain both his motivation in stirring up trouble and the strange accent of his otherwise flawless English.

Roger Ward lived, Margaret was certain. Yesterday morning her men had seen a boat leave the Tower wharf bearing Reginald Bray and a bound captive. The tide impeded boat moved upstream slowly enough so they could easily follow it from land. The report by her men that the boat went to Lambeth Palace had thrust a knife into her.

Cardinal Morton allied with her son—along with the threat of torture—would have been more than enough to set flapping the seeker's tongue. She had to accept that this Ward divulged he was a visitor from five centuries hence, and worse, he revealed the existence of ground in Pembrokeshire that connected past and future.

With that knowledge in hand, it would have been a simple matter for John Morton and Henry to deduce that she also knew of the ground. Those two fertile minds would have gone on to put it all together. Including possible use of the future as sanctuary.

She must face that Henry now suspected Edward and Richard Plantagenet lived in that future. She knew her son would believe he must capture the Princes to assure the security of the dynasty. And Roger Ward was available—for however much treasure it took—to help Henry in this act. An act which would doom Tudor.

Margaret swooned. She caught herself before she could fall from the saddle.

Giles, her master of the horse, moved close. "My lady, you are dreadfully tired. We should stop."

"Nay. We ride on."

"My lady—"

"I have had a vision. That is but my trouble."

She saw another of the escort cross himself. That angered her. She was not a witch.

"Ill tidings, my lady?" asked Giles.

"Mayhap."

That was the grossest understatement of her life.

She had visited the future—five hundred five years ahead—several times while Owen still lived. Then England, and all Europe, was recovering from the Armageddon-like struggle they called the Second World War. Fortunately the forces of good had prevailed over godless Fascism. Alas, they faced an even more dire threat from godless Communism, armed with the horrible atomic weapons.

Despite this threat, what she encountered in the world of the West enthralled her. The material advances were impressive. Yet as she eagerly read through a wealth of texts, she realized the advances were primarily the fruit of five centuries of achievement by a long list of scholars and scientists. She took great pride that so many on the list bore Anglo-Saxon surnames.

She had always believed God intended man to use his intelligence as a tool to discover the nature of the temporal world. She had never put truck in superstition or mysticism, and scorned those who did. Hard study and hard questioning were the keys to understanding the world God had created. Again she took pride that it was Englishmen—Bacon, Grossterte, Occam—who fathered the scientific method.

She also applauded the political structure of the West. At first she was wary of the absolute democracy that had supplanted monarchy. That even the lowest commoner had as much say in who ruled as did a peer, at this first unnerved her. But she warmed to it. Her readings on Locke and the Federalists convinced her of the inherent legitimacy of the popular will. Such an arrangement also made practical sense in that one need not wait for death—or usurpation—to dispose of a bad ruler. Voting served as a far better alternative.

Yes, she approved of what she found. The peoples of the West might not devote as much homage to God as she would like, but their laws and mores gave homage in place of worship. The democracies of the West were closer to the Christian ideal than Europe had been even during the High Middle Ages. Men and women lived free, were kind and tolerant, and their best and brightest sought out the nature of the universe with undiminished passion

While Owen lived she had traveled to the future at least once a year. She enjoyed each visit to the hilt, and was tempted to stay. She of course could not, she had a son to raise who the history books said would become king of England at the age of fourteen in 1471.

The books said both Henry the Sixth and his son would die of natural causes that year. Henry Tudor, the sole surviving hope of Lancaster, would mount the throne with no opposition from the House of York. Margaret would play an instrumental role in securing the acquiescence of the Yorkists. She negotiated the marriage of Henry to the eldest daughter of the Duke of York.

Henry the Seventh and Elizabeth of York would give birth to Arthur and Henry. Arthur would tragically die in 1502 and in 1509 the second son would ascend as Henry the Eighth. Her grandson would marry six times, found the Church of England, and leave behind a daughter—the future Elizabeth I—whose reign lifted England to the rank of a great power.

In early 1461 it all went awry. Inexplicably the Duke of York—supposedly a captive of Lancaster—appeared at the head of the Yorkist forces and led them to victory at Mortimer's Cross. The Duke—now proclaimed Edward IV—two months later triumphed at the battle of Towton Moor. Tens of thousands of Lancaster lay dead in the snow.

On her next visit to the future Margaret found that the twentieth century was no more. At least the one she had so embraced. In its place she encountered a nightmare civilization, ruled by the Antichrist. Satan had donned the guise of God and whoever entered this world truly must abandon hope.

The chronicles of this warped world told that in 1483 Edward IV died and his brother Richard was named Lord Protector. Richard did imprison a number of the Queen's kin, the Wydvilles, but he never harmed the Princes. In June of 1483 the coronation of Edward V proceeded without incident. Richard then retired to his estates in the north, where two years later he died after being thrown from his horse.

Why had history changed? In this warped world why did the Plantagenet line now extend unbroken into the twentieth century, instead of falling in 1485 at Bosworth? Margaret had never determined the precise cause, but she was sure an escaped Keeper lay behind the alteration.

Margaret was determined to restore the rightful world. From the chronicles she learned that great tension existed between the Wydvilles and Richard. In fact, civil war seemed imminent upon the death of Edward IV. Richard's swift arrests prevented that, and the restraining power of the Royal Council—especially the faction headed by the dead king's favorite, Lord Hastings—in turn prevented usurpation by Richard.

She realized the means to re-establish Lancaster awaited only proper guidance. If Richard could be prodded a bit more, and Hastings removed, then usurpation could take place. Afterward, to prevent a counterstroke, Richard must dispose of Edward V and his brother. That act in turn would revive the fortunes of Lancaster, as revulsion over the fate of the Princes grew. Henry Tudor would draw many adherents.

This was all calculation, of course, with no guarantee of success. But she could see no other path that would make her son again king of England. Her son must sire the son who would become Henry VIII, who would turn history back to its appointed course.

Margaret let a decade and a half pass, then she sought out John Morton, the Bishop of Ely and a former supporter of Lancaster. A trusted friend, Morton was also the most cunning man in the land. After Towton, Morton had pledged loyalty to Edward IV and was later rewarded with a position on the Council.

Margaret by this time owned a reputation for receiving holy visions. Thus Morton readily accepted her revelation that Edward IV would die six years hence. Morton agreed Richard could be pushed toward usurpation, and it was he who suggested they use Buckingham as their pawn.

Everyone knew the Duke of Buckingham detested both the King and the Queen, who had forced him to marry the Queen's sister. He regarded her as a base commoner—as he did the rest of the hated Wydville clan. Buckingham also carried royal blood on both sides of his lineage. Morton knew this resentful man would not hesitate to reach for the crown if opportunity arose.

Margaret and Morton had found Buckingham easy to manipulate. Buckingham's feigned support gave Richard the confidence to execute Hastings, then to seize the Princes and the throne. As expected Richard gave the order to murder the Princes and Buckingham grimly promised to carry it out.

Buckingham would have, if not for Margaret's threat to betray him to Richard. She accepted Hastings' end as a casualty of war, but she could never abide the slaying of children—even if these children were mortal enemy to both her son and the future of the world. She promised Buckingham she would take the Princes to a place from which they could never return. And so she did.

She took the two boys—blindfolded, hands tied behind their backs, and feet tied to stirrups—into the future. Blessedly the world she found was the same one as when she first journeyed to the future. She dropped to her knees and gave thanksgiving to the Lord.

Margaret was certain the exit of Edward and Richard Plantagenet from the fifteenth century had instantly yanked history back to its proper course. The Antichrist and His world of abomination were extinguished. Such cause for rejoicing then, prospect of the reverse now terrified her as she rode into the balm of a star-kissed night.

**B** ray stood beneath the stars with his king. Heat had finally left the air and here high on the Round Tower of Windsor a steady breeze further cooled. He should be to bed soon, for he must rise before dawn to begin the rush to Wales. Yet he did not want to leave this delicious balm.

Across the black Thames torches moved through the streets of Eton, though it was late. He supposed the warders were winking at curfew this delightful night. On the river in both directions torches borne on boats also glowed.

Through a crenel the King pointed toward the quarter moon in the west. "He says his countrymen have journeyed there."

"You believe him, Your Grace?"

"Yea. He would have no reason to lie about that. It is not to his advantage or disadvantage."

Bray shook his head. The heavens belonged to God. It was defilement that man would venture into His realm. God gave man dominion over the earth, not what was above.

"You will behold many wonders, Sir Reginald. I envy you."

Bray did not feel especially privileged. He truly did not want to see what the world would become. Any more than he would want to learn the hour of his death, which would be available in the chronicles of this future land.

All he wanted to do in that England was secure the Princes quickly and get back. He would tarry not a moment longer.

"You are certain the hook is baited, Your Grace?"

"Yea. You know she can detect the lie in anyone. So I lied passing well."

Lady Margaret had come to Windsor this morning in a state bordering panic. Her son had allowed that proud woman only a callously brief audience.

"You should have seen the look on her face when I told her the seeker had died under torture—before he could reveal anything," said the King. "She tried so hard to pretend shock."

In the dark Bray could not see the King's face, but the voice was quite pleased with itself. Bray refrained from shaking his head. This did not bode well, the King and his mother so intently contesting wits.

"What if she did believe? And shuts herself in Coldharbour House?"

"She will be abroad tomorrow, Sir Reginald, if not already. That is why you must make haste."

"You need not worry, my lord. We will arrive in three days even if I have to tie Ward belly down over his horse."

"See you get him there whole."

"Aye, Your Grace. I still feel it would be better to force the location from him and proceed without his presence."

"He will be your eyes and ears on in this wondrous land. Would you go anywhere depending just on touch and smell?"

"I trust him not a farthing."

"He will do as we want. He has his own peculiar price, and I am paying it."

"I will keep close watch nonetheless."

"He is not to live."

"Your Grace?"

"He will know too much once the deed is done. Wait until you have the Princes in your possession, then slay him."

Strangely the order disturbed Bray. He despised this Ward, who was a blustering fool. But did not his lord have a contract with the man? King Henry always honored his word.

"You are certain, Your Grace?"

"Do not fret, Sir Reginald. I promised him chronicles and writs, not his life. He has to die. And so must this Donald Jeffress. That though, will be a matter for another time."

"Aye. And the Princes, Your Grace?"

The King turned towards him. Bray could feel the probing eyes. "Would it bother you if I murder them?"

Bray squirmed but answered. "Yea, Your Grace. Mightily."

"As it would your king. I promised the seeker they would live and they will live. I said I would send them beyond the Hanse, to the Tartars or Turks. But of course from there they can trek back to England."

"Where then, Your Grace?"

"The Princes will be put on the shores of the New Found Land. Let God then decide their fate. We however never need fear them."

Bray drew his lips tight. The King was certainly in a harsh mood tonight. Bray reminded himself that the kingdom was at stake. Harshness was required.

But since yesterday Bray had detected something else. Heaviness had set upon his monarch. The King had not laughed once, and when away from matters of state, this man laughed easily. In Council today the King had abandoned his usual fine posture to sit hunched. His attention had wandered and Bray, sitting next to him, heard many low sighs.

Bray wished he could inquire. But this man kept himself more close than did a hermit. Only God truly knew the cares and hopes of Henry Tudor.

The King was gazing again at the multitude of stars. "We are going there, Sir Reginald."

"Does God want us there?"

"Yea. He must. Otherwise He would not give us the yearning."

Bray wanted to say "mayhap" but he kept his tongue still.

"It is the seed of England that will do thus."

"That is very fine," Bray said, to say something.

"God calls us there, Sir Reginald. As he called me to send John Cabot across the Western Ocean."

Bray kept from mentioning that Cabot was overdue from his second voyage.

He let out his own sigh. This passage five centuries forward and talk of mankind among the stars, it was too much.

"Best to bed, Sir Reginald. I will pray at each mass for your swift return."

"I thank my gracious lord."

Bray would be praying too.

### Part Two

### Boys in the 'Hood

Chapter 7

**T** hey were the Gang of Four, mused Ward, as he neared the middle of his three hour watch. What an assemblage. A modern history professor, a medieval royal counselor, and two thugs that would be given wide berth in any age.

Bray had warned that whoever was on watch best keep his eyes fixed on the passage. Yet Ward couldn't help but look back through the woods at Simon and Peter. In the camp near the river the two men-children competed at walking upside down on their hands. He bet either would make a team in the National Football League. They were big, agile, and fast. And plenty mean.

Fortunately these fearsome men feared Reginald Bray. They hopped to his orders without hesitation or back talk. They knew Bray was a ruthless son of a bitch himself, and more importantly, they knew his report to the King would make or break them. If they served well each would receive a knighthood and an estate. If they served ill—well, they didn't want that.

But Ward had one question: how would you keep them down on the fifteenth century after they'd seen the twenty-first? During the race from Windsor to southwest Wales, Ward had tried to prepare the thugs for the civilization they would shortly encounter. They had called him liar and worse until Bray told them to accept what Ward said as gospel. Of course they still didn't believe.

Very soon, perhaps before tomorrow was out, they would see the miracles he described. Planes, trains, automobiles. Telephones, television, computers. Vast gleaming cities where commoners lived like earls and the rich like gods. They were going to have a serious case of future shock.

After Simon and Peter recovered, though, he doubted they would they want to go back. But that would be Bray's problem.

"I told you to keep your sights on the passage. Did I not?"

Ward jerked at the sound of Bray's steely voice, very close. His eyes whipped forward to the two rocks, separated by thirty paces, which protruded from the woodland floor. His gaze sought the northern end of the imaginary line linking the basketball sized rocks, where anyone coming into modern times would emerge.

He bit back an excuse. Though Ward could hardly have missed Lady Margaret materialize—he had a clear view despite the intervening tree columns—he did not want to rile the man. Bray had made it plain he neither particularly trusted nor respected him, and woe to Ward if his incompetence or malfeasance caused the mission to fail.

"Sorry. I will pay better attention."

Bray grunted. Then he knelt beside Ward, who sat behind brush a hundred meters from the passage. Worry creased the already wrinkled brow.

"I fear she will come in the dark. She could slip past. After sunset we should move closer."

"I wouldn't recommend it," said Ward. Bray had to realize that made their detection more likely.

"Careful planning is her nature. If she does suspect we are here, she will use the dark to escape us."

Ward thought the opposite. Daylight would give Margaret a far better chance to spot anyone who followed. These several acres of ash and oak could hide the Gang, but open fields surrounded the woods. Darkness would be a boon for them to trail her; daylight would make it tricky despite Bray's claim that Simon could shadow like a wolf.

"Remember she will be in a hurry and will probably cross immediately," said Ward. "The days are still two-thirds light. The odds favor her crossing then."

"Jesu, let it be so."

Jesu, let it not be so. But she would cross in daylight. He just hoped she didn't come on a horse. Though they had brought their own mounts, what would they do if she galloped off across the fields? They'd stick out like sore thumbs as they chased.

When Lady Margaret came they were counting on her heading directly to Haverfordwest, where train and bus transportation were available along with car rental. Haverfordwest lay a mere three miles distant. An easy walk for even a fifty-five year old medieval woman. Which gave him reason to hope she wouldn't arrive mounted.

Still, their troubles hardly ended if they managed to follow her unseen to Haverfordwest. Once in the confines of the town things could get dicey. Lady Margaret knew both Bray and himself by sight. And as Bray alluded, she was prudent. Whether or not she detected them, just to play it safe she might go in the bus station, sneak out the rear, and try to hitch a ride with a tourist.

At least they had a rented car ready for pursuit. Immediately after crossing into the twenty-first century he and Bray walked to the edge of Haverfordwest. Future shock momentarily paralyzed Bray, so Ward went into town alone and hired a nondescript Peugeot 406. It waited with a full tank of gas at the hotel where Ward had paid twenty pounds to park. The hotel sat midway between the stations, and just a block from the A40 trunk road leading east.

While in town he had hiked up High Street to buy four throwaway cell phones, a pair of binoculars, and modern clothes for Bray and the two thugs. He also grabbed a quick bite at a pub in the shadow of the castle—whose ruins had probably spooked Bray as much as any modern marvel.

Lady Margaret would not be spooked, of course, and she would proceed without hesitation. He would feel a lot better once they knew her choice of transportation. If by train, they would get on board and stay several cars back. If by bus, they could put one of the thugs on while the rest tailed in the Peugeot. If by rented car, just follow that car.

Bray gazed intently at the passage. "She could come at any moment."

Ward thought she couldn't arrive until tomorrow at the earliest. The Gang had made it to the passage, two hundred miles from Windsor, in a bare three days thanks to numerous mount changes and hard riding that left his butt jelly. Even in her desperation, a person of Lady Margaret's age—which equated to seventy modern years—could not beat that pace.

But he wasn't going to disagree with Bray. The remainder of today he would go through the motions of vigilance.

"We are ready for her."

Another grunt. With that Bray wheeled and headed back to the camp. A moment later he heard him yelling at the thugs, but this time Ward kept his eyes on the passage.

The minutes crawled and he felt himself getting drowsy. No, no, he sure better not nod off. Bray would skin him.

But the only activity he saw around the passage was the scampering of squirrels. He wondered how many of the critters had chanced to slip from the present into the past. Over the millennia probably dozens, though it could hardly matter to them. He doubted that any made it back, for crossing required sticking precisely to the thirty pace line. Which was difficult enough for humans.

His first attempt had failed, then his second. That was a bare five weeks ago, though his senses swore a year had passed. After the second failure he was certain he had fallen for a horrible practical joke. He had bitterly cursed Donald Jeffress.

Driving from the East End nursing home to this distant corner of Wales he had allowed his hopes to soar. The quadriplegic had spoken convincingly—in perfect Middle English—of his experiences in the fifteenth century. The left side of Ward's brain said that no black holes existed in Wales or anywhere on earth, but the right side wanted to believe that some sort of anomaly in Pembrokeshire had bent time back on itself.

Under cover of darkness he had sneaked across private property—which he now suspected was owned directly or indirectly by Lady Margaret—into these woods. When the sun came up he easily located the two rocks, and at that point his faith redoubled. Jeffress had not lied about the rocks, they lay in the north-south line promised, and he needed just to step it off for the miracle to occur.

Next he had tuned his Walkman to BBC Radio One. He started at the southern rock and walked swiftly to the northern lump of granite. To his vast disappointment the broadcast did not abruptly halt. Then he reminded himself of Jeffress' admonition that he must traverse in an exact line. The path between times gave no room for deviation.

Stepping across the mat of leaves as if on a tightrope, he moved again from south rock to north rock. At the terminus the Walkman continued to play. That moment it all came crashing down on him. He was not going to escape.

Utter despair washed over him, and for long moments he contemplated suicide. He wouldn't hang himself from a tree limb, that might prove too agonizing. But he did have a penknife available. Quickly cut both wrists, then sit with his back against a trunk and let himself bleed out.

Yet he knew from experience the black mood would pass, and he would have to go on with the shipwreck of his life. Fifteen years of failure had made him adept at that.

He had stood there in the little forest and lamented. Nothing waited for him back on the other side of the Atlantic. Nothing but a humiliating position at a community college on Maryland's Eastern Shore, teaching a survey course in world history to backwater students.

Man, had he tumbled. Anyone knowing him at age twenty-six would have been astounded. Back then his star burned so brightly. Then nothing could keep him from his destiny of heading an Ivy League history department and authoring tomes that would rival those of Gibbon and Toynbee.

His career had started so well. Days after his twenty-sixth birthday he landed a tenure-track position at Penn. It was rare for a search committee to offer a candidate a position during the first interview. But the interview was really only a formality; his credentials spoke for themselves. He had graduated summa cum laude from the University of Chicago and gained his doctorate in medieval history from the same institution a mere five years later. His professors gladly penned glowing recommendations. His dissertation, a thoroughly professional study of the Wars of the Roses, was lauded and quickly used at Chicago as a supplemental textbook.

He thought achieving tenure would also be a formality. The students loved him; he had a flair for showmanship and he could make even treaty negotiations interesting. His research went well, or so he thought, as he had no trouble getting published in the better journals. He even had one piece make it beyond academia, into The Atlantic.

But he had always had a knack for pissing off his peers. He couldn't help it, he didn't suffer fools gladly. In graduate school he had made enemies of fellow students—and three girl friends—with his acid refutation of any opinion that strayed from the dictates of logic. At Penn he did it one better, alienating both peers and superiors. Plus one fine young woman who he now realized would have made an excellent mate.

At Penn such behavior turned him from a rising star into a fizzling one. He was himself the fool to believe those less quick of wit or tongue would forgive him the humiliations he visited. Somehow they didn't consider intellectual bullying just a more energetic expression of academic freedom.

So with complete surprise he found himself denied tenure. It was a crushing blow, and for the first time he considered ending his life. But he cried in his beer only a couple of months. He rallied and landed a contract, renewable yearly, as instructor at the University of Maryland.

This setback was of course temporary. He was too fine a talent. He would land a tenure-track position again, win that tenure, and be on his way

At Maryland he did well his first year. He presented his lectures with such enthusiasm that his classes were jammed. He offered only the mildest disputation to colleagues' views contrary to his own. He volunteered to serve on committees that the department chairman usually had to populate by dragoon. No way he was going to blow this opportunity.

But of course he did. He kept his tongue in check, yet the compulsion to prove his brilliance must out. When he wrote his dissertation he never ventured an opinion not backed solidly by the data. Nor had he presented controversial views in his journal articles. For years he had kept to himself interpretations of history that might earn him the same scorn he had heaped so often on others.

Now he let loose. From undergraduate school on he had researched and pondered the Wars of the Roses. No one on the planet was a better authority on that thirty year run of intrigue and battle which so changed the nature of the English monarchy. He had drawn conclusions that to him were obvious, although the data did not decisively support him.

For years his certainty that Margaret Beaufort and John Morton had engineered the fall of the Princes and Richard III had burned a hole in his psyche. He supposed he began sending off his manuscripts because he feared getting scooped. He could wait no longer, especially since he now needed all the renown he could get. If the Beaufort-Morton plot were so transparent to him, certainly another bright lad could deduce the same. And reap the fame.

His manuscripts made it into the journals. Big mistake. Faculty members accused him of "comic book" and "tabloid" history. That got his back up, and his razor tongue came out retirement. He didn't shy away after the first round of invective, either. Next he pushed his assertion that the entire course of Western Civilization after the year 1533 turned on the decision of Henry VIII to break with the Church of Rome.

With heat he defended that position both in print and from the podium. Sarah, the last of his serious girlfriends, had tried to warn him. But he was too dense. He was right, they were wrong, and the final triumph would be his. In the beginning revolutionary views were always greeted with fear and loathing.

Then, as befit a man utterly bent on self-destruction, he proclaimed the absolute superiority of Western Civilization. Other civilizations weren't even close. Where were their Shakespeare, Rembrandt, Beethoven, Einstein? The West was the best. In the climate of multi-cultural relativism that was gripping universities he now spoke heresy.

After his third year at Maryland his contract was not renewed. And the word had got out, for he found himself unofficially blacklisted at first tier universities. His unsuccessful lawsuits then made him persona non grata at the second tier and he was fortunate to land a position with the institution near Salisbury. And Sarah dumped him.

At that point he actually did put a gun to his head. Yet he had not pulled the trigger. They said only cowards took their life. Maybe, but maybe he was just afraid to die. Existence always trumped the alternative.

He cobbled his life back together. The community college by the Bay Bridge was glad to have him. They could have cared less about his "crackpot" theories. That he held a doctorate and possessed first-rate teaching skills were enough for them.

But hardly enough for him. Bitterness initially consumed him. The one thing that helped him recover was that he never took his anger out on the students. An effort at first, he made sure these Podunk kids got the same quality of lectures as had the ones at Penn and Maryland. Here too they crowded his classes. Female students again made passes. He dated among the faculty.

Still, in his heart he was done. He would never attain greatness.

Then the letter came from Jeffress. And upon his third attempt at stepping between the stones the Walkman fell silent.

**S** hortly past noon Lady Margaret emerged from thin air. Ward was about to go off watch with Simon ready to take over. Like idiots they were standing. By the grace of God they dropped to the ground before she turned to scan the woods.

Through cracks in the brush they watched her eyes probe. Ward was only moderately surprised to see she wore a backpack and modern hiking clothes. She also sported a black knit cap that covered her hair and ears. That had to be uncomfortable; while not as hot here as on the other side of the passage, it was still warm.

The eyes of Lady Margaret swept past them. Then she faced westward and the woman with arthritis strode swiftly over the leaves and primroses of the forest floor.

Ward was trying to throw off his shock as they scrambled back to Bray and Peter. How had she managed to get here in four and a half days? Plus she didn't look a bit exhausted; she strode away with vigor.

She must have come by boat, probably all the way to Haverfordwest, which did have a port in the 1400's. Traveling by boat would have been a huge gamble. Contrary winds could have kept her in port a week or more, and a storm could have put her at the bottom of the Channel. But Providence had favored her...or maybe she really was part sorceress.

To his credit, Bray did not panic. He calmly sent Simon ahead to tail her, ordered Peter to bring along the horses but keep well back, and told Ward to accompany him as they in turn tailed Simon. They would communicate only by hand signal.

In just a couple of minutes they came upon Simon, who waited at the edge of the woods. He held up a hand for them to halt. Ward looked out onto the sun drenched field and saw Lady Margaret still heading due west. He watched befuddled.

Why was she going that way? Lady Margaret should be turning north, toward the road that would take her straight to Haverfordwest. If she continued west, she would end up at the River Cleddau. That made no sense.

Unless she had a boat waiting. If that were true she'd get away clean.

His breath tightened as he watched Lady Margaret approach a tree line about a quarter of a mile away. Other fields lay beyond the strip of trees, and the river was about a half-mile beyond that. A mere fifteen minutes from now she could be on the Cleddau and beyond their reach.

Ward could already feel the lash of Bray's fury. Bray would blame him for not foreseeing this possibility. Which he guessed he should have.

When she passed through the tree line, the Gang scurried forward. Ward noticed that Bray did not appear worried. Bray probably did not yet appreciate that they shortly stood to lose her. Ward thought of advising him, but what was the point? They were screwed regardless unless Lady Margaret veered north.

At the thin strip of trees they halted again. Lady Margaret was now walking northwest and Ward felt a little better. In that direction there was another road, which the map said ran to Haverfordwest. But why take that route? She would be adding a couple miles. With her age and that backpack she didn't need the extra distance.

Lady Margaret disappeared through a hedge and again they hustled forward. Ward's spirits rose. These strips of trees and hedges were providing better cover than he had expected. The Gang could leapfrog from one to another and follow her undetected right to the edge of town.

At the hedge they saw Lady Margaret walking toward another tree line. At the terminus of the line stood a house. It was a two story dwelling with whitewashed stone walls and a slate hip roof. No one was about.

They waited for her to skirt the house and take the bordering lane that led north. Lady Margaret confounded them all, for she strode to the front door and knocked.

Ward and Bray exchanged glances, then Ward pulled out his binoculars. His eyes jumped across the two hundred yards of field to see two people—a middle-aged man and woman—emerge. The couple was smiling, and then the woman embraced Lady Margaret.

Who they hell were they?

With not much different terminology, Bray asked the same question. Ward's reply that he had no idea got a hostile look.

Lady Margaret and the couple disappeared inside the house. Ward saw the inevitable telephone line leading from the house and knew she could right now be calling the Princes. Outside the house sat a shiny car, a cobalt blue SUV. An Isuzu Trooper. Within moments Lady Margaret and the couple could pile in and be off to alert the Princes by that means. Either way...

Then Bray's head was next to his. "What should we do?"

Ward wanted to say they should do what Henry had expressly forbidden: grab Lady Margaret and beat the location of the Princes out of her. If Bray turned the brutes lose, they'd have the information inside ten minutes.

"We—well, I could ride fast to Haverfordwest and get the car. And hope she's still here when we get back." Except that would take at least twenty minutes—and then they faced the problem of following her on that lonely road without detection.

Lady Margaret perversely relieved him of decision when she abruptly returned outside—alone. She had changed into an ankle length green dress and carried a small suitcase.

Through the binoculars Ward watched helplessly as she walked with car keys in hand toward the SUV. He couldn't believe it. The couple was letting her ride off with their only vehicle? Every fiber in him—and he knew in Bray—ached to charge across the field and stop her.

Since they couldn't do that, they had only one other option. Anger and anguish welled as he rated its slim chance for success. But they had to try.

He cursed himself, and bad fortune more. Maybe he should have planned for this eventuality, just like possible use of a boat. But there were a hundred possibilities and he had covered the ones ninety-five percent likely. This just wasn't right

Ward heard the ignition start. The sound hit as if the strike of guillotine blade.

Lady Margaret backed up the vehicle, then smartly spun onto the lane like she had driven all her life. Dust rose as the Trooper ambled off.

Ward hoped with the hope of all his tomorrows he would see it again.

"After her!" cried Bray.

Ward stared at him incredulously.

Bray shoved Ward toward the horses. "Mount, or I'll slit your belly."

"We can't chase her on horses." What was the matter with Bray? He knew if Lady Margaret caught sight of them it was all over.

Bray's knife came out.

For a mad instant in his bitter disappointment Ward considered grabbing the knife. How great to shove it up Bray's ass. He was sick of taking shit from this surly fuck.

But that of course would get him torn limb from limb by Simon and Peter.

Ward willed away the anger. If ever in his life he had to think and act judiciously it was now.

"Sir Reginald, she will know instantly it is we that follow. People of this time do not chase cars with horse. And a horse cannot move as fast as a car. Even at full gallop. She can easily outrun us."

The knife poised at his throat. "I say it one last time. Get on the horse."

The thugs had already mounted. Ward shook his head. "Our only chance is to get to town. To our car. Then we can try to find her on the roads. But it will not be easy." From Haverfordwest she could go in any direction.

For a moment Ward feared Bray would actually cut him, but then the knife went back inside the sheath.

"Then to town!"

"We'll have to go over the fields. We can't chance her spotting us on that road."

Bray snarled his agreement. Then they were off.

They galloped north by northeast. The Gang charged across field after field, scattering sheep and outrunning pursing dogs. A couple of times distant landowners shouted but the Gang paused only to navigate hedges and tree lines. Within fifteen minutes they approached the southeastern edge of town and the castle swung into view.

Ward led them across the railroad tracks, around the station, and along the station road toward Salutation Square. Hoof beats made a tremendous clatter on the hard pavement. Approaching cars honked wildly.

In the square townspeople and tourists stood agape. For not everyday did madmen thunder on massive steeds into their placid lives. And hop from lathered mounts, tear off saddlebags, and dash into a parked car. Ward saw their eyes widen further when he gunned the engine and left rubber as he peeled away from the County Hotel.

He had a quick decision to make. A roundabout was coming up fast, with one exit going north, the other east. The bulk of Great Britain lay to the east, though there was plenty of room northward. He would have to go with the percentages. He would take A40 east and pray.

Once on the trunk road he floored the accelerator of the Peugeot and the thugs emitted guttural cries of fear. Ward knew the two were brave men used to mortal combat, but of course they had never occupied a metal box that hurtled forward at a speed that smeared the passing landscape. Even Bray wore a look of repressed terror.

But no one told him to slow down. Lady Margaret had a twenty-five minute head start. That meant she had probably already reached Carmarthen—if she were on this road at all. He would have liked to catch her before Carmarthen, because from there she could head either towards London or the Manchester-Liverpool area.

As they wound through the hills of Wales—hills so intensely green it hurt the eyes—the thugs exclaimed and ducked at every approaching car. For the first time Ward addressed them harshly, and these men who had given him little respect stopped their distracting behavior. The white faced Bray said little beyond he should pursue even faster.

Fortunately traffic was light. That would change the further east they got, especially if he chose M4. There on the motorway to London they would encounter impediments to high speed, including fleets of lorries and probably traffic cops.

Then a sickening thought hit him. What if Lady Margaret pulled off in Carmarthen to get gas? They would fly right past her with no inkling she was now behind. Metal to the petal would only take them further away from their quarry.

Even before he reached Carmarthen he chose M4. It was just a gut feeling, that Lady Margaret would have settled the Princes in London. London's vast size and population offered anonymity, plus it offered some connection—if by name only—to their past. Now as then London was the economic, political and cultural center of England.

A bare forty minutes out of Haverfordwest they hit M4. Ward did not slow, even though he was now salaaming through traffic. Horns honked incessantly and he hoped no one was using a cell phone to alert the road bobbies. He doubted Lady Margaret would drive over the speed limit and he was doing half again over it, so if she was on this road they should catch sight of her before much longer.

He knew he was out of his mind to risk what would be certain death if they crashed. But damn it, he didn't need a knife at his throat to give him motivation.

He had to catch the Trooper. If Bray did not bring back the Princes, Ward could kiss goodbye the confessionals of John Morton and Henry Tudor. That was the deal; Ward and the King had jointly buried the parchment in a lead coffer in the game park at Windsor. If Bray delivered the Princes, the coffer remained untouched. If not, Ward would find nothing.

Ward frequently checked his rear view mirror for sight of a flashing red light. God grant him just ten more minutes of chase, for then she would be in his sights. Just ten minutes.

If she were on this road.

The noises from the back seat had changed from terror to those of awe. Now Peter and Simon had their ox-like heads thrust out the windows. They looked agape at the wonders they whizzed past; the eighteen wheelers especially fascinated them. "Great beast, great beast!" they cried. In turn the speeding Peugeot must present its own spectacle.

Near Bidgend he crested a hill and in the distance he thought he saw a blue SUV. A passing cloud dulled the faraway image and he was no longer sure. When the sun hit the motorway again they were closer and he could confirm the vehicle was a SUV. But was it a Trooper, and did Lady Margaret sit behind the wheel?

"Why are you slowing?" Bray growled.

"Look about twenty cars ahead. That dark blue one. It could be her."

"Get closer."

"No. She'll see us."

Bray's hand strayed toward his knife. Then it withdrew. "Do not fail us."

Ward was relieved to drop out of warp velocity. The Peugeot now seemingly crawled as he merely cruised at the 70 mph speed limit. He did let himself creep within a dozen cars of the SUV, but he knew he better hold it there. No doubt the Lady would be constantly checking her rear view mirror.

He still could not make out the model or who drove. Ward knew that more than one cobalt blue SUV existed in southern England. If it wasn't her, then she would be drawing further ahead—and be lost for good.

"We must get closer," said Bray, obviously arriving at the same conclusion. "We must know."

"Do you want to take that chance?"

"Just a mite closer. Simon has good eyes."

Ward instead remembered his binoculars—which hung about his neck—and handed them to Simon. Simon leaned from the back seat to put his brutish mug and the binoculars against the front window. God, that's all they needed, for her to spot that.

"It is the Lady!" Simon exclaimed.

Bray let out a big breath, as did Ward.

Peter chortled. "She is ours."

Ward began to slip back. He breathed even easier when he had put a score of cars between the Peugeot and Trooper. She wouldn't make them now, and yes, Peter, they did have the Lady. Luck and mad driving had caught her. Now lead us to the Princes, let us snatch them, and let me live happily ever after.

He brushed away conjecture of how happily the Princes would live.

Morale in the car rose steady as the miles rolled away with the Trooper remaining ridiculously easy to follow. Ward knew matters would change once they left the motorway, but he'd worry about that then.

When they crossed the River Severn and passed Bristol he became convinced her destination was indeed London, now two hours ahead. Fortune had smiled on them so far, and surely it would lend a hand in the bramble of traffic that waited in the great city.

He remained alert for her to exit for either call of nature or need to gas up. The distance between the two cars would give him plenty of reaction time and reduce the chance she would detect them.

Ward wanted to break into song. If all went well, within six months he should be world famous. He might even make the cover of Time. He certainly would receive a generous advance on the book that would document his incredible revelations. Every talk show would fight for him, and the lucrative lecture circuit would wait thereafter.

Lady Margaret did not exit. Through the undulating landscape—a mosaic of fields every shade of green—she continued steadily eastward on M4. She hugged the slow left lane except to pass an occasional laggard. On the straight stretches with no exit visible Ward moved the Peugeot behind trucks so as to vanish from her rear view mirror entirely. Bray tolerated the tactic but again warned he better not lose her.

All of a sudden it came apart.

As they neared Reading Ward saw the rear lights on the Trooper glow red—and her left turn signal started to flash. Then the Trooper eased onto the hard shoulder and slowed dramatically. She was stopping. Was she having engine trouble?

Ward knew sure as hell he couldn't pull up behind her, despite frantic urging by the thugs. Bray realized that too. He screamed for Simon and Peter to duck down, and he followed immediate suit. Ward kept his own presence of mind and passed a truck as they neared her stopped vehicle. The truck blocked any view of his face.

Bray poked his head up, but Ward demanded he stay down. Bray demanded in turn to know what Ward was going to do.

His mind raced. They would have to stop, the question was where. They came over a hill and a sign said Junction 12 lay two kilometers ahead. The interchange connected with highway A4, which led to Reading. Should he take it? Something told him car trouble hadn't put Lady Margaret on the shoulder; rather this was a ploy to force any follower to reveal himself or take himself out of play.

Junction 12 was coming up fast. A quick look in the rear mirror showed no sign of the Trooper miraculously back on the road. Bray and the thugs had surfaced now and all yammered with conflicting advice. The yammering erupted into blood curdling shouts when he wheeled onto the exit ramp. Bray's knife came out.

Ward screamed back his explanation. "She's trying to trick us. She hopes we drive on, and then she can exit here. She can get to London by another road."

Bray called him fool, buffoon, and vowed he would have his guts for garters. The knife however went back in the sheath.

At the top of the exit ramp Ward wheeled onto the roundabout overpass instead of taking the road toward Reading. He told Simon to keep his eyes on the hill behind them where M4 crested.

"We can circle here awhile," he explained to Bray. There were at least ten other cars on the roundabout, so they wouldn't stand out. Once she passed the Gang could quickly exit and resume the chase.

But would not Lady Margaret anticipate such a course of action? She had likely driven the motorway many times before and knew the lay of the roads at this junction.

Well, she couldn't stay where she was forever either..

Except—he was burning fuel going round and round the roundabout. Which meant if she waited long enough, that would force them to refuel before reaching London. He had less than a quarter tank left, nearer an eighth. So if she waited a half-hour that would guarantee they could not keep up the pursuit.

He could park, but if Lady Margaret saw a stationary car on the overpass, that would be a dead give-away. She would never lead them to the Princes. She might immediately head back to Wales.

Ward explained the fuel situation to the Gang. With fierce anxiety Bray stared back at hill behind which Lady Margaret hid. As did Simon and Peter. All three continued to swear, but now more at her than at Ward.

Ward considered exiting. Off to the left a road paralleled the motorway. A stretch of trees stood between the road and the motorway. They could park by the road and one of the thugs could hurry into the trees and watch for Lady Margaret. It was probably their only viable option.

He proposed the course of action to Bray. After much gnashing of teeth Bray agreed and they exited onto A4. Minutes later on the paralleling road he was blessedly able to shut off the engine. They could not see much of the motorway, but they were close enough to hear traffic zipping by.

"Get to the trees," Bray barked to Simon.

Simon rushed from the Peugeot with binoculars.

Bray turned baleful eyes upon Ward. "I pray you have not led us to disaster."

Ward hoped Margaret had not slipped past during the five or six minutes it took to get to this vantage spot. "All we can do now is wait."

So they waited.

Chapter 8

**M** argaret did not tarry long. No car had stopped behind her, so anyone following would have passed. Unfortunate for them if they waited at the next junction. They would wait a long time.

She did not believe she was being tailed. She had been especially watchful since leaving the Swain's house. No one had followed on that empty lane to Haverfordwest, she was certain.

Both on A40 and the motorway she had constantly checked the rear view mirror. Again, nothing suspicious. But this final tactic would ensure that even the stealthiest pursuers must show themselves or abandon the chase. It was well she knew M4 like the back of her hand.

Margaret waited until a knot of traffic passed, then she wheeled onto the road. She kept her speed low as the Trooper crossed to the right lane. She slowed to a crawl just before the opening in the guardrail, marked for official use only. Seconds later she was accelerating westward.

Her caution was probably excessive, but she must be sure.

Henry was of course lying about the death of the seeker, but on what level? Did he want her to believe this Roger Ward—if that were truly his name—had died without disclosing the path to the future? So Henry might have a free hand in finding and kidnapping the Princes? Or did he hope she would not be fooled, rush to warn them, and thereby lead his men to the Princes?

If the latter, she had foiled her son with this simple maneuver. So simple in fact, that she doubted Henry would risk all on such an easily defeated strategy. It was much more likely he had dispatched Bray and Ward to hunt the Princes while hoping she remained in the fifteenth century.

Her task was clear if formidable. She would quickly have to convince two young men to abandon their careers, their friends, and perhaps their wives—although neither had been betrothed on her last visit fourteen months ago. Edward should be the easier to sway, even if he did detest her. He might even welcome the opportunity to start anew. Richard however would forfeit much.

But convince she must, for it was imperative they vanish without trace. Now that Henry had access to the future, he could send men here for years to come. She was under no illusion that eventually his men would find the Princes if the two remained in the British Isles.

Both boys had the brilliant blond hair of their mother, hair that drew the eye from even two blocks away. Edward was as tall as his six foot three inch father—though his delicate features came from his mother. Richard was shorter, but unfortunately Richard looked too much like the pretender Warbeck—whose face was known to everyone, especially Henry's men. (It would be treason for any but her to say it, but Richard and Warbeck had to be half brothers. Edward IV had probably sired Warbeck out of wedlock while in exile in Flanders.)

She wondered how many men Henry had sent on this first foray. In a way, she hoped Sir Reginald entered with a hundred. The greater the number, the more time Roger Ward must spend to acclimate them to this stunningly different world. She had reacted with stupefaction during her own first visit. If indeed Bray had arrived with a hundred men, it might take a week to ready them for the search.

Fewer men of course could start sooner, and ten or less could begin almost immediately. And of those ten Bray would assign at least three to London. She shuddered to think of them wandering the streets with a sketch of Warbeck in hand. As of her last visit Richard worked in the City, a fairly confined area and likely priority target.

She would try to get Edward and Richard to leave London tonight. Sever their life as it stood, with no farewell messages. Depart without even packing a suitcase. Just go, run with her to safe haven—and survival.

Margaret drove at high speed to Junction 13, then exited north. She reached the outskirts of Oxford under half an hour, then swung around the city. Shortly she was on M40 and headed toward London.

It was now three-thirty. She decided to go directly to Hampstead. For years Edward had arrived at work early and left early. He was not as sociable as Richard, so she well might catch him at his quarters when she arrived. The urgency in her voice should overcome his animosity, and after short debate hopefully he would agree to summon Richard.

Anger gripped her. As she had many times over the past week Margaret damned the seeker. That day at the White Tower why had she not brought a knife? The moment she heard the seeker's American accent she could have plunged the blade into his heart. He stood but a hand span away.

She supposed she was even angrier with Henry. From the day her son mounted the throne he had avoided rash action. Henry had been the model of a judicious monarch who did not let emotion influence his policies. That in large measure was why he had overcome all challenge and was on the verge of securing the dynasty.

And now! It was utter insanity. The Princes were absolutely no threat if they remained in this England. They only became supreme danger if transported back, and Henry was determined to make that happen. She knew in her bones once the Princes returned to the past, whether as prisoners or as free men, Tudor—and all of mankind—was doomed.

Why had God Himself not slain Ward? He knew the stakes. To so put at risk the hard won gains of the past five centuries was pure folly. She had glimpsed the alternative. Surely the Lord had been as revolted as she.

Yes, this Roger Ward had put everything in peril. Once she got the Princes safely away, all her energy would turn to neutralizing him—and the Keeper who sent him. Henry might even give her a free hand once he realized the kidnap attempt had failed.

Margaret exited M40 at Uxbrige, then snaked through the western suburbs of London toward Hampstead. Her pace slowed considerably. The numerical display of time—such a cold way to present it—told that ten minutes had passed since the hour of four. She should arrive at Edward's before five.

**E** dward Forester stared with cold fury out the window of his third floor flat. The beauty of the view, that of sunlit Hampstead Heath and a glimpse of central London beyond, only heightened his rage. The glorious day mocked him.

More and more he understood why men who had endured too much struck back with gunfire. As happened with steady measure in the United States, and in other nations with reasonable access to firearms. A pity Britain had outlawed their use at even gun clubs.

Dickon would call soon, he knew. To see how the interview went. What a bloody fiasco. He had promised Dickon he would not get riled, be all sweetness and light, but the panel acted more as interrogators than as interviewers. That short, stocky one had especially aggravated him.

To have to prostrate himself for a position with the Inland Revenue. How often did the Solicitor's Office get an applicant of his quality? But he had done exactly as Dickon advised, presenting an attitude of humility and willingness to work as a team player.

The interview at Somerset House had started out well enough, with pro forma pleasantries and praise for his educational background. Then the knives came out. Mr. Forester, for what reason did Crimmons & Garr fail to offer you partnership? Mr. Forester, did you truly resign or were you in actuality let go as counsel with Marks and Spencer? Mr. Forester, please convince us that you do not regard Inland Revenue as a step down, and that you will not leave within the year if you receive a better offer. Mr. Forester...

After twenty minutes of it he had simply stood. He put as much disdain in his voice as possible. "You are afraid of me," he told them in that cramped and airless conference room that was as bleak as them. "You fear the contrast between my performance and yours. In any age you would be as you are now, petty, envious, and quite without talent. You are not worthy of me."

A flicker of triumph had crossed the face of the stocky one. The others just looked at him. He turned on his heel.

Edward pulled from the window and slumped into an armchair. He did not head to the kitchen to pour himself some cognac, as much as he wanted. He was proud of his ability in the face of setback to avoid the bottle. A pity that ability was so much in play this past year.

What would he tell Dickon? He supposed he could just say Inland Revenue wasn't interested. Or that they would get back to him. Or that they offered an insulting salary.

But he and Dickon didn't lie to each other. He would tell his brother exactly what happened—and without apology. It was they who had treated him miserably, not the other way around. They had indeed feared him. They were weak and ineffectual bureaucrats who knew that his brilliance would shatter their settled if dreary office routine.

They had feared him ever since he came to this land. At Harrow, at Christ's College, at Crimmons and Garr, at Marks and Spencer. He had laid waste to all competitors. Even harder for them to accept was that he could win with only modest effort. They ground and sweated and gave it their all and still they could not come close to outperforming him

He had tried to befriend them. But they resented, feared him too much. They responded with backbiting and slurs, even outright sabotage. They poisoned the atmosphere of the classroom and later the workplace. His superiors—he loathed using that term—found it easier to remedy the situation by easing out the one victim rather than getting rid of the numerous perpetrators.

He fared better with those not in direct competition but they were people with whom he could never form a connection. He treated them kindly; as he would have his subjects, yet he viewed them more as children than candidates for comradeship.

The buzz of the ground floor intercom jolted him. Who could that be? He checked his watch. Five ten. It wouldn't be Dickon, unless he had taken off early. Dickon said he would call first anyway. Probably a delivery man.

It struck him sad that he could not extend the list of button buzzers. Other than Dickon he had no callers these days. Not that he ever had that many.

He strode to the intercom.

"Yes, please?"

"Edward. It is Margaret. I have the most urgent news."

His jaw dropped. He began to breath hoarsely as revulsion swept him.

"Edward. I must come up. Time is precious."

"Begone! Now, before I come down and snap your neck. You wretched, vile dwarf."

"Yes, yes. Rant. Then let me in. Both you and Richard are in the gravest danger and we must hurry."

"The only danger is your ugly face."

"Men are coming for you. Henry's men."

His heart skipped a beat. "You lie!" She had to lie.

"I only wish I did. They come as I speak."

It was impossible. No one knew where they were.

"The path from this time to the past has become known to my son."

Edward's knees went weak. "You told him?"

"Of course not. I will explain. But let me up."

"You swore we were safe. You swore it." He became aware of his voice breaking—like a woman's. He gathered himself. He would not falter this time, as he had so badly before.

"This is no time to go wobbly, Edward. You can save that for when I have you and your brother away from here."

Oh, how he hated her. This pious fraud. This devastator of lives and hijacker of history. Did she really think five masses a day could save her soul?

"How do I know this is not another of your manipulations? Perhaps men are coming, but they are Yorkists that have found the path. And they want to guide me back to my realm." Yes, that would explain the desperation in her voice. "You know I could overthrow your son inside a fortnight."

The Cornishmen had rebelled only a year ago, mostly due to intolerable taxation. This king was a man who the Inland Revenue would recruit in a second. Henry Tudor pounced on any subject thought to have a loose penny. He was intelligent and an able administrator, Edward would give him that. But the mad Valois blood inherited from Edmund Tudor was ruining Henry's political judgement. He was ripe for overthrow.

"Edward, let me up."

"Get you hence. Or I will call the police. Try and tell them your tale of men coming from 1498 to do me in."

"You must listen. They could appear at any time. You—"

Edward let go of the button. Mercifully the shrill voice cut off. Unfortunately the buzzing continued. He put his fingers in his ears and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

At the window he pressed his face to the glass in attempt to see down to the apartment entrance. He could just make out the back of someone beneath the portico that wore a dark green dress.

He almost threw up the window to scream for her to depart. How much better if he could hurl down an object to flatten her head.

Finally she pulled back from the portico and he saw a hatted head sprout from the green dress. The head craned upward and he jerked his own back. Why did he do that? Why did he not lock eyes with she who had caused him so much pain? Was it because after all these years, after telling himself so much differently, he was still a coward?

Edward forced his face back to the window. But now she was scurrying away, moving remarkably fast for an old woman. He sourly noted that the dress she wore ran from throat to ankles, though it was the height of summer. Up the street she climbed into a blue sports utility vehicle. A big plume of exhaust jetted as she drove away.

He found himself trembling. He told himself he trembled more from anger than fear. How dare she appear with her wild warnings. She always had a game to play, and cared not the least what she set asunder. Tomorrow he would get a restraining order, and if the mother of Henry Tudor returned he would have her behind bars.

Now he did draw himself a glass of cognac. He drank deeply and refilled. No way to drink Napoleon, he knew, but the warm burn in his esophagus and stomach felt so good. A third glass he drank more slowly.

Then tears were in his eyes. He angrily flicked away one that had escaped onto his cheek. Cowardice. He could still not overturn that verdict, and never would. Much as he loathed Margaret Beaufort, she would not have succeeded if he had shown spine. At the supreme moment of decision he had betrayed the entire Plantagenet dynasty. She had no part in that.

Stoney Stratford. That fateful April day fifteen years ago. Only yesterday in his mind and in his gut. When fear had cost him a crown, and very nearly his life. When he was king yet failed to act like one.

He already sat in his saddle, ready in the chill dawn air to depart for London, when Uncle Dickon and the Duke of Buckingham and their six hundred men rode into Stoney Stratford. Quickly the two dukes went on bent knees and proclaimed him their sovereign. That reassured him, for he knew both these men hated his mother's side of the family. His two thousand armed men reassured him more.

Then he noticed the absence of Uncle Anthony, who had traveled the afternoon before to Northampton to greet the two dukes.

"Where is my Earl Rivers?" he asked.

The dukes eyed each other, then the mask of friendship fell from the face of Uncle Dickon. Fell for good from the trusted brother his father had named Lord Protector, the supposed guarantor of Edward's reign until he came to majority.

"Evil is about, Your Grace. The earl has conspired with others to murder me. I have had him arrested."

Edward about fell from his saddle. "That cannot be. There is no more loyal subject. To both me and you."

"Rivers, Grey here"—the scowling uncle looked at Edward's half brother—"Dorset, your mother, they all seek my death. They know that I alone will keep the Wydvilles from power. For that reason did not your father name me Protector? And protect you I will."

Both the dukes had swung back onto their horses. Edward tried to think clearly, but paralysis gripped his mind and will.

He could barely get his tongue to work. "They—they have served faithfully. I swear on all holy that they have." Edward was aware his manner was slipping from that of ruler to supplicant. But he could not help it. Uncle Dickon wore the most forbidding of demeanor. Everyone in the kingdom knew his prowess in both war and governance. This was a many times proven man and Edward was but a boy.

His uncle's voice grew harsher. "They ruined your father, especially Dorset. They killed him surely as with a dagger as with the drink and wenches they urged on him. All in hope that upon his death they could rule in your name."

"Uncle Dickon, they are good men. They would not plot treachery."

"You are but a child, and ignorant in the ways of the grown. They have deceived you. But their wickedness ends here."

"And why do you accuse my mother? She would never harm you. I cannot believe—"

Buckingham cut him off, speaking even more vehemently than his uncle. "The Queen is but a grasping commoner. Your Grace can rely on neither her nor her kin to put the welfare of the kingdom first. It is only we, the true peers of the realm, who can do so."

Edward bridled at the slur on his mother. He had never liked Buckingham. This pompous duke had always treated Aunt Catherine meanly. Uncle Anthony had warned that Buckingham was also a power lusting man, one who his father had never given any meaningful charge. Edward never would either.

But then the dukes were fiercely shouting at Grey, accusing him of prime part in the conspiracy. Orders quickly followed to arrest him and others. The dukes' men immediately complied while Edward's did nothing. Nothing at all.

Yes, it was as if yesterday.

That one moment. When all he had to do was cry "Hold!" If he had bellowed that word with utter conviction...

A thousand times since he had played out the ensuing confrontation. The dukes would have said ignore the command of a child. But Edward would forcefully state that he was king, not his uncle. The dukes, or any others who defied Edward committed treason.

He was certain the dukes would have hesitated. And during that hesitation Edward would have secured his accession by ordering their escort disarmed. How many of that party would have resisted after hearing "treason" uttered by their king? Especially knowing they were outnumbered three to one?

So simple. Yet he had not done it. He was then but two years younger than when his father first went into battle. His father at twelve would not have flinched from asserting authority. His father was a fighter, a warrior king. His son had shown no mettle at all.

Edward's equivocation had cost the lives of his uncle Anthony and his half brother—and later Lord Hastings, his father's most loyal councilor and Edward's advocate. Their deaths were on Edward's head alone. Edward in that moment had doomed them, and nearly himself and his brother. Worst of all, Plantagenet was thrown down forever.

Till the day he died the failure at Stoney Stratford would torment him. There would be no absolution. His crime of omission was just as great as the crimes of commission his uncle Dickon had committed.

If only the Tudor's men were really coming for him. They would try to kill him, and probably succeed, but this time he would fight. If he died in battle, fine. That was an end fitting a Plantagenet. If by some miracle he defeated them he would try to turn the survivors to his cause. They could lead him back to his own era, where he would rally all England to return the rightful heir to the throne.

But no one was coming.

**I** n the noisy pub Richard Bishop leaned closer to hear her. He knew his work mates were curiously eyeing his strange companion. As well they should, for the near midget sized woman was a sight. Her hat fit like a wimple and she had to be suffering in that dowdy green dress that even the Queen would not wear.

His own reaction, however, was not one of mirth. It had always amazed him how such a tiny person could so intimidate. That stern hatchet face and those piercing black eyes were part of it, and the canny intelligence backed by iron will finished the job.

He was used to her popping in every year or so, and he actually looked forward to her visits. But from the moment she accosted him two steps outside his office building he knew there was nothing social about this encounter.

He had asked if anything was wrong with her health, and she shook her head. As they walked to the Three Tunnes down the street she said little beyond she had stopped by Ned's. She had waved aside his query as to how his brother reacted.

Richard took a long drag from his pint of bitter. He couldn't imagine what was the matter if it weren't her health. He of course knew from the history books about the death of his infant nephew Edmund next year. And in four years poor Arthur would die, followed shortly by his dear sister Elizabeth. But Lady Margaret would know he knew that.

So why sport such a doleful countenance? On this side of the time her ability to peer into the future did not reach beyond the current sweep of the second hand.

He noted her wrinkled hands were lathering imaginary soap with vigor. What was going on? What frightful thing did she have to reveal?

"Pray tell what troubles you, Lady Margaret." As always when she appeared he slipped partly back to the vernacular of medieval England. Which was strange, since memory of those days grew dimmer with each passing year.

"My Duke of York, I wish I had other tidings."

That was enough vernacular for him. He wasn't any duke. It was enough he had to put up with such rubbish from his brother.

Lady Margaret took a long swig of her own from a glass of white wine.

"I bear the worst possible news. Somehow the location of the path between times has become known. As we speak agents of my son are spreading throughout Britain in search of you and Edward."

Richard wasn't sure he had heard right. Or if he had, she was making a terrible jest. But Lady Margaret did not go in for practical jokes.

He shook his head. "No way."

"You must leave the city tonight."

"You're insane."

"Do not be a petulant fool like your brother. You spurn me at cost of your life."

Richard became aware of his fists balling. "I thought you were the only person who knew the location. That was our guarantee we could live out our lives undisturbed."

"Another knows. After I get you two to safety, I must seek him out."

One of the balled fists slammed the table. "This is bullshit!"

Conversation about them ceased. He turned to see many quizzical eyes and he smiled weakly. "Family matters," he said to his work mates. To Lady Margaret he apologized for the expletive.

She waved her hand. "My second husband could go on for an hour with blue speech. Richard, you must convince Edward what I say is true. You must return with me to Hampstead."

He barked a laugh. "You have to convince me first."

"Do you think I am lying?"

"Maybe, maybe not. This wouldn't be the first time you've used our lives to suit your ends."

"If not for me you would be fifteen years dead."

Yeah, and she never let them forget it. But he dared not forget. Indeed, she had rescued them from certain death, and then lavishly provided for their upbringing and education. She could have just let Buckingham drop them into the Thames.

"You still have to convince me."

Over a second round of drinks she came close. Her tale was bizarre, but he had actually heard of this person Roger Ward. Out of morbid curiosity Richard had from his teen years followed the proceedings of the Richard III Society. Sometime back they vehemently contested what they called the "ravings" of an obscure American history professor who just as vehemently proposed that their darling—his wretched uncle—was just a pawn in the machinations of Margaret Beaufort and John Morton. Even worse from their standpoint was Ward's pitbull insistence, and persuasive logic, that the uncle did order his nephews killed.

There was only one way that this Ward could have found his way into the tail end of the fifteenth century, and he certainly hadn't learned from Lady Margaret. Somebody on this side knew of the hole in time. And for some damnable reason had sent Ward through.

"But what evidence is there that Ward is back here? You said your son said he died under torture."

"I have considered and rejected that. You know how pretenders have plagued my son's reign. He believed those troubles were behind him, and now Ward tells him of a sanctuary in another time. It would be but a short leap for Henry to suspect that is where you and Edward live. He knows if you left his time, you can return. And you are not pretenders."

Richard was getting a major case of indigestion, though he hadn't eaten since lunch.

"I just can't bolt from my life—I do have a life here, you know—because of your suspicions. I need proof Ward and Bray are really here."

"Alas, that proof will come only when they are upon you."

"I—no, I can't bolt. I've got friends going back to the time you put us in Harrow. I've got a good job. I love this London. And—". There was Jill. He should have mentioned her first.

"Your maiden?"

"Yes, by God. You know that."

"Are you now married? Or at least betrothed?"

His face grew hot. "That's not any of your business. All you need to know is I won't leave her."

"Tell that to Henry's men as they truss you for the return journey."

Richard ran a hand through his mop of blond hair. "You've no right to turn our lives upside down again."

"I am trying to save them again."

"Where would we go? And we certainly can't relocate under our current identities."

"First we get you two away. I own property in Cheshire where you can hide. Then I will obtain new credentials. It will be your choice where to live. I would recommend a change of continents, perhaps North America. To help you start again I will grant you each a half million pounds."

"Great." He spit the word out. As if the money would remotely make up for this devastation of their lives. Well, at least his. Ned might not mind so much.

"You will have to depart without revealing your new identity or location. That is an absolute necessity. You may never again contact anyone you know here. If your Jill goes with you, she must do the same."

Richard wouldn't have minded throwing Lady Margaret a right cross. He had forgotten how imperious she could be. Cut everybody off, just like that, no matter the pain on both sides.

He had no doubt she could deliver on her promises, including the million pounds. She had a lot of money, probably an incredible amount, and all the influence it could buy. A five hundred year look into the future tended to give one quite an investment edge. Hell, compound interest alone over that time would turn even ten pounds into a fortune. And she had thousands of pounds at her beckon in the late 1400's.

"I'll tell you one thing, Lady Margaret. Ned and I aren't going anywhere. Not until we're bloody well satisfied it's the only course open."

Anguish filled the face of the old woman. He had to remind himself she wasn't really that old, just fifty-five. But God, she looked seventy or more. Again he gave thanks he lived in this era and not the other.

"Richard, you act like a man in a burning house who tries to save as many mementos as possible. When wisdom says escape with your life."

"Suppose Henry's men are in town. What are the odds of them finding me or Ned out of seven million people?"

"You know how much you resemble Warbeck. You might as well put a sign about your neck stating 'Richard, Duke of York'."

"I'll spend most of my time indoors."

"I knew I should not have let you keep your first names. But I wanted you to have some continuity."

"How many Richards and Edwards are there in England? Lady Margaret, I know you believe we are in danger. But Ned and I are going to have to hash this over—thoroughly."

The head of the house of Tudor looked defeated. Now that was something he had never seen before.

"Look, I'll head straight over to see my brother. But you mustn't accompany me. I'll bet you set him off earlier, didn't you?"

"Yes. He is even more blind than you."

Richard slumped back in his bench seat. "This is a hell of a thing you've dropped on us."

"I would give tens of millions of pounds not to be here. But I am."

All of a sudden Richard knew he and Ned would have to flee. They would deny it awhile, but how could they not run now?

It was so unfair.

Chapter 9

**I** t was not until early evening that the Gang of Four approached the western environs of London. Ward wondered if the Four would soon decrement to Three. Bray and the boys had chewed him up one side and down the other ever since they abandoned Junction 12.

The Gang had waited two full hours at that accursed spot, where never had minutes ticked by so slowly. Ward finally agreed to what Bray wanted to do in the first place: return to the motorway and see if the Trooper remained on the hard shoulder.

Bray had actually screamed when they crested that hill and saw the car gone. That set off Simon and Peter, who bounced in the back seat like a couple of apes. Thankfully none of them noticed what Ward saw. He had missed it the first time by, so focused was his attention on the Trooper.

An opening appeared in the double guardrail separating the halves of the motorway. It was several yards wide and marked for official use only. Lady Margaret probably waited only a couple of minutes before crossing over to the other side of M4.

Ward had swallowed hard as he did the painful calculations. Lady Margaret had been loose for two hours. She must have exited at Junction 13, where she could head either north or south and take one of a dozen paths into London. Even with the detour she would get there at least an hour before them.

Ward knew he made a convenient target for everyone's frustration, but even Simon and Peter had to realize this setback—hell, catastrophe—was more due to Margaret Beaufort outwitting them than his screwing up. Hopefully that was why Bray's knife had stayed in its sheath.

As they neared London the tongue-lashing diminished. Bray retreated into brooding, while the boys became distracted by the wonders of a twenty-first century urban area. The occasional high-rise office building—"mighty keeps"—blew their minds, as did the sight of jets ascending from Heathrow.

They exited the motorway and from the Chiswick Roundabout they entered Chiswick High Road. They merged into heavy traffic and the Peugeot was reduced to a crawl. Bray fumed anew and demanded Ward use the unoccupied surface that bordered the road. He growled at the explanation cars were forbidden on "sidewalks".

Along the High Road, the boys got a close-up view of modern architecture. As the car passed the British Standards building their necks craned to near breaking as they gaped up at the twenty-story structure. They marveled at an office complex on the other side of the road that exhibited hundreds of yards of glass exterior, an exterior that mirrored back both the traffic and the lowering sun.

The High Road made for an impressive stretch: tree shaded, spiffy clean, and lined with tony establishments quite unlike anything Bray and the boys had encountered in old London. The boys babbled at the sight of burnished frontage housing boutiques, estate agencies, antique shops, al fresco restaurants, and of course, pubs.

Yet the boys soon were diverted by something even more eye riveting. Simon and Peter stared transfixed at the maidens of the twenty-first century. Bray, nearing sixty, appeared just as astounded. Ward saw only female teenagers dressed normally for a warm summer's evening.

Ward smiled. Even the prostitutes of Simon and Peter's day showed no more flesh on the street than that of their faces. Here only yards away were fair lasses revealing calf and thigh. Add the occasional bared midriff and plunging neckline plus the tautness of remaining clothes, the situation had to make for a major elevation of medieval blood pressure.

Bray and the boys' heads whirled every which way. Bray muttered "harlots" while Simon attempted to address the girls directly. Of course his accent and phrasing were not understood, but the young lovelies got the gist of his inquiries just the same. They recoiled.

Ward had become used to Simon's appearance, but he imagined few sights would appeal less to a modern—or medieval—teeny-bopper. For strike one Simon bore a complexion marred by smallpox. Throw in that he spoke from a tooth gapped mouth and sported ragged greasy hair; women were going to sprint in the opposite direction.

Peter had remained quiet. Then it became obvious the man was playing with himself. Ward abruptly braked to snap Peter out of it. Bray too noticed the auto manipulation and the shouting began again.

That snapped everyone out of it. Time for the Gang to return to the task at hand.

Earlier he and Bray had debated how to proceed now that they had lost Lady Margaret. Ward's first inclination was to drive about London throughout the night in hopes of spotting the Trooper. Bray wanted to split up, with he and the boys searching on foot while Ward looked with the "cart". Bray obviously had no conception of the size of modern London despite Ward's attempt at enlightenment. It had been left at they'd decide when they got there.

The Gang confronted a megalopolis of eight million souls spread over six hundred square miles. A lot of hay in which to hide a needle, and that assumed their quarry was still in town. To have any chance they had to hope the Princes would not immediately heed Lady Margaret's admonition to flee.

How much would the Princes trust her? She had saved their lives before, yes, but by now they would have figured out Margaret Beaufort Tudor had hatched the plot that kept Edward V off the throne. They would have to wonder what truly motivated her.

Ward prayed the Princes would hesitate. He would in the same situation. Even if she did at last convince them, inertia would hold Edward and Richard Plantagenet for a while. It would not be a simple manner to ditch a comfortable, settled life. And trade it for the status of a fugitive in what would surely become a worldwide hunt.

They were passing a number of restaurants. Aromas of freshly cooked food wafted through the car to torment Ward. Smells of pizza, kebab, curry, Chinese.

Ward checked his watch. Seven ten. They still had an hour and a half of daylight left. But so what? By now he was exhausted, the tension of the chase since morning having taken its toll. And he was starving. It was time for a break.

He looked for a place to park. He was about to turn into a side street when he spotted a Burger King ahead. They would dine there. It was a travesty to eat American fast food while in another land, but now he wanted an American hamburger bad. And the yobs in the back seat would be more welcome there than in a fancier place.

Providentially a parking place appeared at the corner of the next side street. He pulled into it.

Which brought a snarling demur from Bray. "Why do we halt?"

"We have to decide what to do. I have some ideas."

"Speak them while we ride."

"I'm hungry. What say you, Simon and Peter, you want some food?"

Their affirmative chorus brought another snarl. But Bray yielded.

The Gang attracted wary glances as Ward led them to the two story structure down the block. The boys' heads snapped back and forth as they continued to check out young women. Fortunately they made it to the double glass doors of the Burger King without incident.

Inside Bray and the boys froze. Ward could imagine the alienness of the glittering, garishly colored interior. Then Simon and Peter gawked at two lasses in shorts waiting to place orders. Within seconds the girls, and everyone else, were swinging heads towards the Gang and wrinkling noses.

During the first day on this side of the passage Ward tried to get Simon and Peter to take a dip in the river. They thought having their pageboy tresses cut was sacrifice enough. They refused to bathe, and even more contemptuously rejected his pleas to apply deodorant. Ward's appeal to Bray went unheeded.

After five weeks in a world of stench Ward found that smell of the boys registered mildly in his nostrils. But to the freshly exposed their odor had to hit hard. Even the workers back in the cooking area were reacting as if transported to a sun baked garbage dump.

Ward told Bray to take the boys up to the second floor. He would get the food.

When Ward carried a laden tray up the stairs he encountered a stream of descending patrons. No surprise. Well, the Gang could plot their next move without fear of eavesdroppers.

Bray and the boys just stared at the fare Ward set before them. Then Ward began cramming in chips and they gingerly followed suit. Ward wryly noted that the table manners of five hundred years ago matched nicely with those required for the consumption of fast food.

Then Ward added ketchup to his chips. His dining companions exclaimed and backed out their chairs. Bray crossed himself and warded off the devil in Latin.

It took Ward a moment to understand. "It's not blood. This is juice—well, sauce—from a vegetable called a tomato."

They looked dubious. Then Simon squirted some of the red stuff into his palm, sniffed, and finally licked it. He grunted agreeably.

They needed less prodding to down the burgers. The Whooper tasted great to the famished Ward, and was probably the most savory food the boys and maybe Bray had ever eaten. They also eagerly drank their Cokes.

Simon asked about a privy. Ward had to go himself. He decided to get this part of the introduction to modern amenities over with and he led the other three into the men's WC at the rear. Inside they gawked again as if set down on another planet.

Ward was pleasantly surprised by the cleanliness of the two urinal, two stall restroom. By example he showed the proper use of a urinal including the flush. He wasn't going to demo a dump in their presence but he did instruct on lowering the seat and how to draw from the roll of toilet paper.

Simon and Peter then barged into the stalls while Bray made himself at home before a urinal. Ward went downstairs to get refills on drinks.

With everyone refreshed the Gang got down to business. Ward unfolded a map of greater London. He ran a finger around the borough currently known as the City.

"This is your London. What you see on the whole map is today's London. It has a hundred times the population and six hundred times the area."

The magnitude of the task began to sink in and faces grew long.

"Sir Reginald had the right idea when he suggested we search separately. Instead of foot you will do it by special cars called taxis." His finger ran west to east along the Thames, then north to south to bisect the map.

"Simon, you will take the northwest quarter. Peter, the northeast, Sir Reginald, the southeast. I'll use the car for the southwest. We will start here, at a name known to you, Charing Cross. You will tell your taxi driver to work outward from there, taking care to go along every street."

Bray nodded his head and Ward continued.

"Simon, Peter, you must treat your driver with courtesy. He is not your servant. If the driver at any time refuses to do as you ask, you cannot threaten or attack him. You will fast end in jail, and in this land Sir Reginald can do nothing for you."

The two looked at Bray for confirmation. "Aye," said Bray. "Be as if you were acolytes."

That brought a chuckle from the boys, but they nodded.

"Sir Reginald, we have to find lodging." He was going to insist everyone shower. Otherwise they would never get admission to a cab. "I can—"

"We have not the time. The Lady will have spirited them away by midnight."

"Then we are finished anyway. Our only true hope is that the Princes tarry a day or two." If residing in London at all, he almost added. Lady Margaret could have continued on into Kent or Essex. Maybe she was even headed to the Chunnel if the Princes now lived on the Continent.

Fire had returned to Bray's eyes. "You will take us to Charing Cross forthwith." His hand strayed toward the knife.

Ward was tired, tired enough to not care about the knife or a pummeling from the boys.

"This is my domain. I know the lay of it while you do not. Refuse my counsel and you will surely fail."

"We cannot waste time."

"I did not say we get right to bed. I recommend we take lodgings, clean ourselves, then search until an hour past midnight. Return for three or four hours sleep and we can search all day tomorrow. If we don't sleep a little, we lose ability to stay alert. Alert we must be, for the one overlooked car will belong to the Lady."

That did bring agreement from Bray.

Then Ward explained how they would use cellular phones to report on each other's progress. He had demonstrated them while waiting at Junction 12 and Bray and the boys had thought it all sorcery.

"We will use the phones at the start of each hour to call Sir Reginald. You can ask the cab driver the time. If one of us spots the Lady, we will call Sir Reginald immediately."

Simon ran a filthy fingernail between extremities on the map. "We can speak even if this far apart?"

"Absolutely."

The boys looked to Bray, who in turn looked to Ward. "You swear this in the name of the Lord?"

"I so swear. By midnight you will be firmly convinced."

**T** he Gang of Four was going to bankrupt him. Ward had feared they would have trouble securing lodging, it being the height of tourist season. The harried but unflaggingly polite girl at the Tourist Information Center in Hammersmith had tried hard to run something down. He pledged he would accept a room in the seediest dive.

The not bad looking girl had banged away at her keyboard until at last her face brightened. A room was available. At the five star Conrad London in Chelsea Harbour, two hundred thirty-five pounds per night. Oh, four persons, make that an even three hundred.

Then came the taxi fares. This first night would singe him, and he would incur third degree burns when he hired three cabs for a full day. And each day afterward. More hundreds of dollars into the red.

The search from nine p.m. to one a.m. turned up nothing. He had not expected it would. Only the blindest luck would have located the Trooper in such a brief time, and Ward believed the Gang had used its allotment of good fortune in catching up with Lady Margaret on M4.

In the hotel room Ward placed a wakeup call for five. Exhaustion robbed him of any ability to appreciate the luxurious room for which he was paying so dearly, and he fell unconscious on the huge bed without bothering to roll back the covers.

The jangling of the phone came only two minutes later, except that somehow the clock had moved ahead four hours. The Gang struggled up and in the breakfast bar that fronted a marina he introduced them to coffee. And then to pancakes, which they ate syrup and all with their fingers. Ward was glad he hadn't ordered scrambled eggs.

Outside under a gray dawn Ward arranged flat fee payment with each of three cabs for nine hours' service. He instructed the drivers on the methodical street coverage required; explanations were neither solicited nor offered. At the end of the period the cabs would return their fares to the Conrad, where the Gang would grab a bite, compare notes, and then start the second shift.

In the Peugeot Ward was quickly across the Battersea Bridge to pick up where he left off. Last night he had finished on Prince of Wales Drive. Exhaustion had let him entertain the foolish hope that Edward would live on the street bearing his former title. The townhouses on the drive were certainly posh enough for a prince.

Now he worked outward toward Clapham. But about fifteen minutes into the search he found himself again drained. The coffee wasn't kicking in and he wondered if even a gallon would have any effect.

He was sorely tempted to pull over and nap. He was going to drift off sometime today, and it might as well be while not behind the wheel. The others would never know.

Instead he drove back to the Conrad and hired a cab. Damned the expense. He knew he had to give this hunt his all. Through the numbing fatigue he reminded himself that success would transform his life. Failure would leave it the pointless same. He repeated the words as if a holy mantra.

Back across the river Ward's taxi snaked through a maze of residential streets. Soon all brick Victorian terraces looked the same and he knew he had made the right decision by switching to passenger status. Before long he would have been repeating some streets and missing others. These London cab drivers—they of the "Knowledge"—had the terrain down cold.

Street after street, block after block, and no cobalt blue Trooper. No Troopers at all. Ward kept up polite conversation with the gentlemanly driver to both help pass time and keep himself awake. He barely succeeded at either.

Every hour he called Bray. Bray and the boys weren't having any better luck. Ward tried to keep up his spirits, reminding himself it was early in the hunt. In all likelihood the Princes were still in London. Probably debating furiously what the hell to do. Hash it out thoroughly, lads, and put off decision till tomorrow.

The cab moved eastward, into Nine Elms. More terraces of flats and a few detached houses. Ward liked brick exteriors, but he was beginning to hate the ubiquitous sight. Under the gray skies the dull red frontages put extra rebuke into the word drab.

His attention perked as the colossus of the Battersea Power Station came into view. The abandoned station by the Thames with its four soaring smokestacks had graced the cover of a Pink Floyd album, and of more interest to him, the compound served as a sinister Tower of London in a nineties film about Richard III.

A bit further on they approached the New Covent Garden Market. As the cab passed the acres of warehouses Ward's eyes searched the great lorry park which ran adjacent. Several thousand trucks were present, but not one blue SUV. So on the cab went.

His conscience waited until one in the afternoon, as they prowled the Vauxhall area, to at last nag. The pest had kept silent for a week. So why raise its ugly head now? He needed every ounce of concentration for the search.

The pest roughly reminded that he was engaged in an activity that sought to deprive two young men of their freedom. At his hand two innocent lads who had already endured one traumatic dislocation would undergo another. Add the caveat that this abduction would land them in a remote region east of medieval Moscow instead of the miracle of modern London.

Ward had always wondered how Richard III could place ambition above the lives of two children. In the same situation Ward of course would put their well being first. No earthly prize could tempt him to do otherwise.

Ah, was not noble thought cheap? But he had wandered in the wilderness of rejection and obscurity too long. When time was running out in one's life—the prime years of it, at least—a man could no longer afford to wear the garb of purity. White and black merged to a more forgiving gray.

Ward soothed his soul with consideration that unlike the "unnatural uncle", he did not intend the Princes' death. He firmly believed Henry would keep his word to send the brothers east and make sure they lived in comfort. Henry VII was not Henry VIII.

Besides, the Princes did not belong here. They were out of place, out of time. He would merely aid in correction of that anomaly.

Shortly after two, near Kennington Park, Ward spotted a dark blue SUV. His heart raced until he saw it was a Honda instead of an Isuzu. The passing of the adrenaline surge left him totally spent. He was too tired to even curse.

At three-thirty he met the others back at the Conrad. Simon and Peter looked as beat as he felt and Bray could not have set his jaw more grimly. The Gang found it had covered less than five percent of their quadrants and the clock wasn't slowing to accommodate them. At this rate it would take two weeks to cover Greater London. Even the inner boroughs would require three or four more days.

There was nothing to do however but drag their numbed minds and butts back into the cabs. Ward braced himself for anther nine hour shift that would only creep past. No way he could stay awake through all of it. He decided to drift in and out of catnaps; he would promise the driver a bonus of two hundred pounds for spotting the Trooper.

He did remain awake as evening fell and the cab navigated Brixton. In this area the rate of violent crime had been rising for years. The tabloids proclaimed it the South Central LA of London—muggings, carjackings, cocaine dealing were routine—and there had been a nasty racial "disturbance" a couple of summers ago. Both he and the cab driver made sure all doors were locked.

Ward saw a lot of black faces, but also a lot of white ones on the streets around the Brixton tube station. The triangle formed by the intersection of Brixton, Coldharbour and Atlantic Roads was a hopping place. Crowds of jubilantly inebriated—or stoned—twenty somethings were filing in and out of scores of pubs and clubs. The thump of acid rock vied with the bewitching rhythm of calypso. Pretty girls were everywhere on display. If not for his fatigue, and his mission, Ward would have gladly joined the festivity.

As the cab left the well-lit triangle of fun and re-entered the dark and litter strewn residential streets, his trepidation returned. Groups of teenage boys on sidewalks gave them hard stares. A couple of lads scared him as they ran up to the cab—only to ask if he wanted crack or ecstasy.

He made it far south as Streatham Hill as the clock approached one in the morning. On the way back through Brixton the revelry around the tube station continued unabated. Didn't all those people have to go to work when the sun came up? Ward shook his head and tried to grab a little shut-eye as the relieved cab driver took him back to the Conrad.

**I** n their room the Gang tumbled into bed like felled trees. Again only seconds passed before the wakeup call, from which Ward rose into a fog of utter grogginess. In their own fatigue and frustration Simon and Peter got into a shoving match. Bray had to wave his knife to restore order.

In the dawn light Ward moved west from Streatham Hill into Clapham Park. More endless brick row houses. More no sign of the Trooper. From Clapham Park into Clapham Common. Neither posh nor decrepit, the Victorian terraces and occasional high street with Mum and Pop shops kept coming.

Noon arrived and now he edged into Balham. One o'clock, two o'clock and still zippo. Nor did Bray or the boys report the faintest nibble. With dismay Ward noted that nearly forty-eight hours had passed since Lady Margaret reached London, and at last he yielded to the obvious. It was fast reducing to lottery odds that they would find her.

In a way it was a relief, if a bitter one. The Gang had been so busy searching, no planning had gone into the mechanics of kidnapping. Bray could not burst into the Princes' residence shouting "In the King's name" and expect meek submission to the royal authority. The Gang would have to physically subdue two healthy young men without attracting notice. They would then have to get the brothers undetected all two hundred twenty miles to the passage. If they failed in either measure, the Four faced many years in jail.

As if to provide an exclamation point, shortly before three the cab turned onto Earlsfield Road—where to the left loomed a massive brick complex. Her Majesty's Prison Wandsworth. Each of the long cell blocks that radiated out from a high central turret contained some of Britain's most hard core cases. If the Gang was caught, that was where they would end up.

Brutes like the boys might fare okay behind the bars, but Ward certainly would not. He shuddered at thought of the inmates having their way with him. To land there would cap his descent of the past decade.

As the cab passed the great prison his eyes alighted on an alternative ending just beyond: Wandsworth Cemetery. The ranks of headstones warned he too could reside under the grass there. Who knew how violently the Princes might resist? Or pursuing bobbies apply force?

Yes, there were worse fates than continuing life as a complete unknown.

He didn't want to give up; capturing the Princes was really his last chance. He hadn't gone over to another time and nearly lost his life to come away empty-handed. But now he had to do some serious risk benefit analysis.

As the cab drove back to the Conrad for the shift change, Ward decided he would give it another day. By this time tomorrow they would either have found the Princes or their prey would be gone. The Princes would be utter madmen to hang around longer.

Tomorrow, after the others started the second shift, he would drive to Heathrow. He would catch the first plane back across the Atlantic.

He had to think of his own skin. In the event of failure Bray might have orders to eliminate him. Or Bray might eliminate him on his own volition; Ward did not doubt Bray still held him responsible for losing Lady Margaret at Junction 12.

When he reached the hotel, he found only Bray and Peter waiting outside. Bray looked concerned. Ward was ten minutes late, so Simon should have been back by now. Bray said Simon had not called to report in the last couple of hours either.

Though Simon could be delayed by traffic, Ward immediately concluded what Bray must be thinking—that Simon had jumped ship. Simon was the smarter of the two yobs; he could see they weren't getting anywhere and that each passing hour hardly improved matters. Success meant a knighthood and land, but what would failure get him besides a few nobles and a pat on the back?

Any man with gumption would choose this century. Ward certainly had not planned to take up residence in the fifteenth. Simon had enough intelligence and balls to venture life here, in what still had to be a disturbingly different world. Ward tipped his hat to the man.

They waited silently outside the Conrad as Bray paced with increasing fury. The doormen eyed them warily. So did some passing tourists.

Finally Ward suggested they begin the shift without Simon. "He'll be along. I'll leave some money with one of the drivers for when Simon comes."

Ward had to step back from the wrath that now filled Bray's face. "You are ready to run, just like him."

"No—"

"Do you think me a fool? We will indeed continue with the search. But you will ride with Peter."

"That's—". Ward wanted to say totally inefficient. But Bray did have him pegged.

Well, he would not panic. He would share a cab with Peter. Tomorrow afternoon the first policeman they encountered Ward would get out and accuse Peter of threatening him. Peter the dimwit would lose his cool and probably get into a brawl with the bobby. Ward would slip away. He had his passport and his much abused credit card on him and he would head straight to Heathrow.

Then someone addressed them from the revolving door entrance of the Conrad. It was one of the desk people.

"Sir Reginald Bray?" the clerk asked, eyeing them with disbelief that any in their disheveled trio could hold a knighthood.

Bray stepped forward. "Aye?"

"Uh—a gentlemen has rung and said he has seen the Lady. He wants to speak with you."

Chapter 10

**T** he Countess of Richmond and Derby waited patiently for the crowd of tourists to move forward. August was not the best month to visit Westminster Abbey, but she always made a pilgrimage when she came to the London of this era. How could she stay away? Those she loved lay here.

It was difficult to remain patient. The pressing horde of people did not bother her, though. They were a minor irritation and she almost welcomed the distraction they provided. Rather she must steel herself against the agony of the wait, the wait for two brothers to decide their fate and that of the world.

She reflected that success in desperate enterprises required both patience and audacity. The rub was in knowing when to apply which. God had blessed her, and her son, with the rare ability to choose correctly. Thusly they had kept their heads from the axe, gained a throne, and set the stage for England's decisive rise.

She had promised Richard she would wait until summoned. That was proving the hardest promise of her life. Every fiber of her being strained to rush back and once more argue her case. Yet Richard was right, continued badgering would only increase Edward's resolve to defy her. And the more she pressed the more Richard got his own back up.

The air within the Abbey was warm but she shivered nonetheless. Memory of the meeting with the brothers yesterday morning still unnerved her. She had never seen the likes of the cold hate that poured from the eyes of Edward Plantagenet. Nor had she ever endured such invective from his lips. In vain Richard tried to still him.

Margaret realized much of the loathing directed at her cloaked self hate. His outburst confirmed once again an opinion she had reached when Edward was the age of six: the son of the great Sun in Splendor lacked fiber. His subsequent behavior on both sides of time had not altered that opinion. Edward was still the nancy boy.

She valued adversity, not because she welcomed it, but because adversity unfailingly revealed core character. When life's journey went smoothly men could hide behind the masks of charm and wit. When the journey went afoul, the facade fell. Adversity had stripped Edward naked while richly clothing his brother.

As king Edward would have been easy prey for his mother's side of the family. The peers and commoners already hated the Wydvilles, and Edward would have granted those parasites intolerable influence in both economic and political affairs. Five or ten more years of their arrogance and greed would have brought the realm to civil war, she was sure of it. God had not erred in assisting her to deny this feeble man the throne.

Let him hate. Let him stew in its juices an ocean away. Yesterday she had arranged for American documents—green cards they were called—which would allow the brothers to live indefinitely in that fascinating commonwealth. She would take delivery of the documents next week. Hopefully on the following day the Princes would have landed in America.

After that she could wash her hands completely of this misfit. She would miss Richard, who had become ever dearer to her heart. She must remember though that every person had entrance into one's life and also an exit.

She would pray daily for their welfare. At the same time she would be glad to have that burden lifted. With the Princes safely berthed, mankind could continue on its ordained path to creating a sublime civilization.

Beneath the soaring fan vault ceiling the crowd crept forward and eventually she approached the grill work which surrounded the tombs of her son and his wife Elizabeth. Shortly she stood before the effigies of the pair that lay atop a black marble tomb.

Her throat constricted as she gazed upon Elizabeth. In less than five years fair Bessy would be taken from Henry. Margaret lamented the future pain of her son.

She wrung her hands. A whole harvest of death was coming. Edmund, Arthur, Catherine, Elizabeth, Cardinal Morton, Sir Reginald. She rarely questioned God, but why would He deal Henry staggering blow after blow? Especially, why take Arthur and Elizabeth within the space of a year? Arthur perhaps had to go, to prevent his siring an heir. The Lord still could have let Elizabeth live another decade and the course of history would not have changed.

The nature of Henry's reign beyond today she knew only from history texts but it appeared he never got over that brutal double dose of death. Once Elizabeth was gone he withdrew upon himself. Gloom pervaded court, and he obtained joy only by wringing ever more coin from his subjects. They say he was detested by the time he died.

She took solace knowing that when she returned they would all be alive. And did not everyone pass from this world?

Margaret became aware of tourists easing around her as stood rooted before the effigies atop their black marble tomb. She should move on. She silently wished Godspeed to the pair still alive yet long since dead.

She left the grill and shortly came to the urn purported to hold the bones of the two young men she had argued with so vehemently yesterday. She hoped it was her son, not her grandson, who had buried that chest at the White Tower. Henry would have put in the remains of two boys already dead from disease or accident. Harry may well have murdered.

Then Margaret stood before her own effigy. To think just beneath the reclined figure in gilt bronze lay her own bones, when the same bones were presently clothed with living flesh. What an intriguing contradiction. Yet it was also reminder she would die in eleven years, just weeks after her son.

She studied herself. Margaret was not sure she needed to view her appearance eleven years hence. So many wrinkles. She had some now, but not this multitude. It was sad how age ravaged the body.

She turned and came face to face with a female tourist who had also been viewing the effigy of Margaret Beaufort. The woman obviously saw the uncanny resemble, for she did a double take. Margaret smiled and walked away.

**T** he Beaufort woman was going to take even this from him, thought Edward. He sat side by side with his brother, their backs firmly against a giant oak here on Hampstead Heath. The only place in this London where he could find peace.

A solidly overcast sky stretched south over the vast city. Today the gray vista below steadfastly remained modern, but on brighter days he could see the London of his youth. The Heath returned to real wilderness, emerald green fields replaced the jumble of suburbs, and at the center a forest of church steeples sparkled under the sun. For a golden moment he would be alive in his own time.

Soon, perhaps today, he must choose whether to say goodbye to this refuge for good. But he could no longer summon anger towards the Tudor witch. He had spent his passion yesterday.

He eyed Dickon, who was lost in his own brooding. He must say they had a row yesterday morning the likes of which he could not recall. Edward screamed out his lungs at the witch, and after she bolted, Dickon in turn rated him. A horrible sleep the night before helped fuel the explosion, but Edward knew he should have better managed himself.

The catharsis of relief nevertheless had proved akin to orgasm. To expel all the bottled rage against she who had destroyed his future. The proud old woman could do little but take it—at least until she threw up her hands and fled.

A brief joy. Today, as yesterday and the day before, he and Dickon sat on the horns of the dilemma. To trust or not trust the person who had both saved their lives and savagely crossed them. If left up to him he would use the rack to determine the veracity of her tongue.

This morning Dickon had come out on the Underground and they shared a rather quiet breakfast in the village. Edward had apologized. Dickon in turn said it was forgotten and all just nerves. The dark circles under his brother's eyes told that Dickon too had suffered a sleepless night.

Afterward they drifted up Heath Street, still saying little. It had struck Edward sad as they passed shop after shop that all the staff within remained strangers, although he had lived in Hampstead three years now. Give his brother three years and no one would have escaped his bonhomie.

Edward had not wanted to return to his flat so they continued up Heath Street. It was a bit early, but they stopped in Jack Straw's for a pint. They finally began to ask each other what in the Hades they should do. Edward really didn't know. Stay and live in constant anxiety, or flee and wonder if the witch had duped them.

A second pint resolved nothing. At least they kept their deliberations free of rancor. Edward had tried to approach the problem as befit a barrister, with analysis free of bias. He did not get far. This case totally lacked solid facts and depended on the hearsay of an unreliable witness.

From Jack Straw Castle they walked across the intersection into the Heath and found their oak tree. No wonder they dozed off a bit. By the time they regained their wits noon approached. Edward had no desire to move, yet neither could they remain in this falsely idyllic location all afternoon. They had to come to a decision.

"If we are going—and I don't know if we are—we should go today."

"I agree." Dickon's voice was listless as his body.

Edward felt for his brother. Edward would cast off only a failed life if they fled, but Dickon would abandon friendship and accomplishment.

Again the hate for Margaret Beaufort seeped into his gut. Fifteen years ago she had wrenched a glowing future from Edward, now she would inflict the same devastation upon Dickon. Could Lucifer's fires ever burn hot enough to mete her justice?

"I keep returning to whether we can believe a word she says."

Dickon tossed a twig out onto the grass. "She would buy and sell us for the sake of her Henry, I know that. But what sinister motive could she have for sending us to the States? With a million pounds in our pockets?"

"She is sinister through and through."

"She buggered us, yes. But now like then I think she's trying to save our skins."

Edward threw a twig of his own. "So once again she determines our fate. That I cannot abide."

"If men are coming for us, that's moot."

"I should be fifteen years upon my throne."

Dickon pursed his lips. Edward knew his brother less and less tolerated references to the thwarted reign. In turn Edward tried to refrain from mentioning it. But holding his tongue was not easy.

Dickon had been only nine when the usurpation occurred, and at that time was still thoroughly a child with no conception of the world beyond his play chambers. Nor had they groomed Dickon from birth to rule a great kingdom. Nor had Dickon deliciously anticipated ascent to the throne, where he would complete the reforms begun by his father and begin to implement his own.

No, Dickon could never truly understand what Tudor had taken from his elder brother. Dickon would have been a duke, wealthy and pampered, but with very little power and responsibility. Dickon's sense of loss was a trifle compared to his own.

Edward abruptly changed the subject. "Do you love Jill?" He had never asked Dickon that. He assumed his brother did. Dickon had been seeing the girl—a exceedingly lovely and refined lass it must be said—two straight years now. The previous record stood at eight months.

"I thought I did. Perhaps I should thank Lady Margaret for clarifying the matter."

Only an honorific of pejorative nature should front the name Margaret, thought Edward.

"So you don't?"

"No. The past two days I've tried to convince myself otherwise."

"I've always liked her. You know that." She was ever kind to him, though undoubtedly she thought him an odd duck like the rest of Dickon's friends.

"I do. And I have appreciated it. Thank God I'm not married to her now with a couple of kids and facing this situation."

"Look, you have so much here. Do not let the 'Lady' chase you out unless you are absolutely sure."

"Ned, how can we be sure?"

"She should not be allowed to take away a woman you cherish if don't love, friends like Bobby Albert and Peter Growe, your promising future with Zinker Limited, your football...all of it, which roots you so firmly here."

"Come on, it is Henry who will take away. Please stop blaming her."

Edward could sense they were on their way back to a shouting match. He sighed.

"Then we go?" Edward asked.

"I guess we must."

"Leaving is almost a pleasure for me. You lose everything. That is really what I cannot abide."

"We'll make a new life in America."

The Land of the Fresh Start, thought Edward. God knew he needed one. But poor Dickon—

"Today?"

Dickon nodded. "As she says, best not to tarry. I'll go back, pack a few bags, make some calls, then come back out here. I'll tell her to meet us."

They rose and Edward found his legs shaky. Then his brother linked arms at the elbow with his, in the custom of the old times, and they walked as one from the Heath.

**W** hen the taxi let Richard out before his brother's Georgian terrace at seven, he found Lady Margaret sitting in her car with arms folded and wearing a peeved expression. He rolled his eyes. Don't tell him they had been going at it again.

He knew he should have been here sooner. He had tried. But one just didn't quickly go down a checklist to jettison a life. There were too many people who'd meant so much for so long.

The farewell meeting with Jill had taken two hours alone. The pain of that, especially her pain—she did love him—would tear for a long time. That very fine person deserved so much better than this out of the blue, inadequately explained severance.

Pete, Mac, Sandy, Matt, Drew, Bobby—all of them. Their shocked reactions, their pleas to help if he were in trouble, their pledges they would remember him fondly, their hurt a trusted mate wasn't trusting them with why he was leaving.

Making the final rounds at work had been just as brutal. Zinker had employed him since graduation and treated him well from the start. He received another merit raise only last month and rumor had him on the short list for promotion to deputy IT manager. And here he was giving an hour's notice in the midst of the Citrix conversion. They must think him an utter shit.

So on top of all that he did not need to see his brother keeping Lady Margaret out in the street. Ned had promised to treat her civilly in the short time left that they must endure her. It did not bode well for whatever future lay ahead if his promises expired this quickly.

"Lady Margaret," he called.

The diminutive figure behind the wheel barely moved her hatted head toward him. My God, she was slight. If not for the old face one would think a child sat in the oversized blue vehicle.

"Good evening, Richard. Please put in your baggage. Then fetch your brother and let us be off."

"You two have a row again?" He should have been here when she got here. He promised he would arrive no later than five, but—

"This time he was not as foul. However we both agreed it was best we wait separated until you put in an appearance."

"I'm sorry I'm late. There was so much to do."

Her face softened. "I understand. It could not have been easy. Now please, get your brother. All day I have felt searching eyes drawing nearer."

That made hairs rise on his nape. He had always suspected this woman possessed a touch of extra sensory perception. Or maybe like Ned kept saying, there was witch in her.

He shook it off. "Okay. But we might not be right down. I should ring a few more people."

"Richard—"

"I'll hurry best I can." Damn, this woman pushed. She loved so to control. Well, this next week would be the last she controlled them.

He threw his two bags into the boot then buzzed Ned's flat.

"Is she with you?"

"No. Come on, let me up."

In the arid flat they faced each other wordlessly. Ned also had two suitcases packed, and for some reason an overcoat draped over his arm. Richard didn't bother to ask why.

"I need to use the phone."

"Certainly." Ned put aside the overcoat. "I have enough cognac left for two glasses. Will you join me?"

"Hell, yes." He wished Ned had more. They should do that, buy a bottle on the way out of town, then get pissed in the back seat while the old bat whisked her charges to the North.

Attempts to reach two friends from his days at Harrow found neither at home so he left long messages on their answering machines. His hand reached for the receiver again. Then it pulled away. He wanted to ring Jill, but any more words from him would only deepen the wound.

He hung his head and murmured her name.

"I'm so sorry," said his brother. "This is probably the worst day of your life."

"I'll survive." Richard downed his cognac with one flick of the wrist. Then he eyed his brother.

"Ned, it's you I'm worried about."

"I'm fine. As I said, I leave behind only failure."

"It waits in the States if you don't change your ways."

Ned surprised him by not flaring. Instead his brother merely nodded. "I have thought on that."

"You can't want a repeat performance of your life here."

"A total disaster, no?"

"I'll help. All I can. But you must do the majority of the pulling."

Ned finished off his cognac with civilized sipping. "In a way I feel liberated. While here I felt obligated to rule the country. If not from Buckingham Palace, at least from the PM's house. Sheer lunacy, but it gnawed at me all the time. In the United States I will be just another bloke."

As you were here, thought Richard. Well, it would be a godsend if Ned did not transport his fantasies—and that haughty attitude—to the New World.

Richard had not broached it, but he planned to propose once settled in America they go into business together. Ned knew corporate law, he knew information technology, and they had start up money. Ned was brilliant and Richard bet his brother could become a real business force once they got going.

Richard would also insist Ned take up a sport. Ned wasn't particularly athletic, but with lessons golf should suit him fine. Richard would join his brother in the chase of the little white ball. The game would make for a good business and social vehicle, even if he did find it a too slow paced sport.

They would double date too. Without visions of grandeur to hinder him, Ned should be ready to settle into a real relationship. He might even be hungry for it. Ned was a good looking lad and if he could loosen a bit, the girls would come swarming.

A horn beeped from the street below.

"And who might that be?" Edward asked. He remained seated.

Richard checked his watch. Good God, it was eight twenty. He didn't realize that much time had passed.

He went to the window. In the gathering twilight the vexed face of Margaret Beaufort was craning upward.

"We'll be right down," he called.

He faced Ned. "I guess we should go."

"I suppose."

"Let's be done with it."

Ned raised his empty glass. "To our new life."

Richard raised an imaginary one. "To the new life."

As they headed toward the door Richard noted that an item on the fireplace mantle was remaining behind. Good.

Soon after arriving in this time Edward had obtained a crest—or had it made, Richard forgot—that depicted a lion holding an ostrich feather. Which was the badge of Edward Plantagenet, Prince of Wales. The crest had been displayed prominently where ever his brother resided, house, dormitory, or flat. If Edward was abandoning this link to forfeited greatness, then maybe he really did intend to start anew.

They each carried a suitcase as they wound down the stairwell. Richard was glad Ned preceded him, for now tears flowed from his eyes. At least he didn't sniffle. He tried to ignore the pack of knives thrusting into his gut.

They reached the front portico. The street lamps were on now. As Ned stepped to the sidewalk he had to pull back, for a girl in very brief shorts jogged past.

Richard shook his head. Hampstead was a safe enough area, but he wouldn't jog anywhere in London with dark coming on. Especially if female.

Margaret was regarding them with an almost apologetic look. As well she should. She started the ignition. Ned was steadfastly keeping his eyes from her.

Up the street Richard saw a couple more joggers. This was rich, two guys running together, each big enough to deter an army while the girl with no muscles ran alone. As always, an illogical world.

He turned to put Ned's bag in the boot.

Chapter 11

**S** imon was waiting for them at the south end of Well Walk in Hampstead. The tree-lined residential street ran down a gentle slope for a hundred yards, flattened for a couple hundred more, then ended at a three-way intersection. Ward saw two dozen cars parked, all on the right side of the road. The last car in sight, just before the curve, was a blue SUV.

The binoculars confirmed it was an Isuzu Trooper. The glasses couldn't penetrate the reflection coming off the rear window, but Simon swore Lady Margaret sat behind the wheel. She had been sitting when his taxi drove past and his good eyes told she still sat after the taxi hurriedly rounded the block to drop him here. He had not been able to inform them immediately because the cell phone battery had run down.

"The Lady has left her cart once. She went to the door of the manor across but did not go in. She has not stirred since."

Ward checked his watch. Simon had stumbled upon her around three. So she'd cooled her heels outside that brown bricked building—it looked a Georgian townhouse converted to flats—for nearly an hour. A long time to stay in one spot if people were looking for you.

One of the Princes, perhaps both, had to live in that building. Was she waiting for them to return from work? Why not just pick them up at work and go? Why was she still in London at all?

The Peugeot fairly vibrated with the energy of its occupants. This was the first time Ward had seen Bray actually upbeat; Bray hummed an anthem of "they are ours, they are ours". Visions of knighthood and fair damsels danced within the skulls of Simon and Peter. Ward vibrated only with anxiety.

Different visions twirled inside his cranium. Those of him in a docket flanked by enormous bailiffs in the deep well of a courtroom in the Old Bailey. He faced a trio of grim men who sported black robes and white wigs. The center judge was pronouncing sentence with an impeccable Oxford accent.

Ward did not want to go inside.

Was he the sole member of the Gang of Four to consider that their difficulties were only beginning? He had thought Bray able size up a situation. Perhaps when the giddiness passed Bray would see how much the odds were still stacked against them.

Right now the unspoken plan consisted of roaring down the street when the Princes arrived and the boys leaping out to grab them. Never mind this would likely take place in broad daylight, generate an enormous racket, and within seconds have a score people phoning the police. The Gang wouldn't get five blocks before screaming sirens appeared at their rear.

That was assuming they even got out of this block. They had no idea of the physical prowess of the Princes. What if one were versed in the martial arts? Or the brothers could just resist like hell, they surely would, and delay matters until the 'hood sprang to their aid.

To tail Margaret once she left with the Princes was a better plan. Ward knew Bray would reject that out of hand, and who could blame him in light of the ease with which she'd lost them on M4? But Ward would be ready for her tricks this time, and maybe they could use a taxi as a second pursuit car. They had to allow her to reach a less populated area where chances for a clean snatch would improve.

Ward was right. Bray immediately rejected the suggestion. His mood darkened too.

"We take them here. Now."

The boys seconded with resounding ayes.

"It cannot succeed. We will be caught within an hour of the taking. In your time all you needed was a head start on fast horses to get away. Here you have seen how fast phones can spread the hue and cry. The constables will lie in wait where ever we go."

Bray, his face flushed now, turned to Peter. Bray nodded.

Suddenly Ward was in a headlock. He could smell the stink of Peter's body and breath as the massive arm coiled tightly. Ward could see enough of the brutish face to catch a grin.

Ward was smart enough not to struggle. He could feel the latent power behind the barely restrained musculature. His neck would snap with ease.

"One word from me, coward, and you will live out your days helpless as a babe. Just like this Jeffress you spoke of."

"Sir Reginald—"

"Shut thy mouth. Unless you have words that will help us. Be sure of this...today we take the Princes."

Pressure increased. "I hate a yellow dog," hissed Peter.

Ward remembered all too well old Donald Jeffress lying helpless in that ragtag nursing home. The desperate eyes, the hose at the throat, the smell from the unchanged diapers.

Oh, why hadn't he headed for Heathrow first thing this morning?

"What say you, Roger Ward?"

"We would fare much better in the dark." Not especially helpful, but it was hard to innovate just an arm shift away from becoming a quadriplegic.

"Aye. But we have hours till dark. Do better."

"The—the main problem is this car."

"How so?"

"We are finished soon as we start if we put them in this car. Its description will be all over England within minutes."

"And to remedy this problem?"

"We need another car." He blurted the answer without thinking. But he realized the blurt held the seed of a solution.

"Why would that aid us?" Bray's voice hardened. "Why would not they describe that one and catch us just the same?"

Peter had tightened his grip to the point where anymore pressure would cut into his windpipe. Ward forced himself very still. Strangely his mind sharpened to full focus.

"Because we can use the other car when we seize the Princes. We then drive to this car, out of sight of observers, transfer the Princes to it and escape to the passage. The constables will be looking for the first car, not this one."

It took a moment for the logic to sink in. Then Bray muttered "Jesu" and regarded Ward as if he were a genius. Ward had grade B movies to thank for his inspiration but he would take favor any way he could at this point.

Bray gestured for Peter to release his grip. Ward sagged in the front seat.

"This other car, can it be a taxi?"

"Perhaps," said Ward. Christ, that would mean hijacking one. They'd have to subdue the driver, dump him in the trunk, all without passersby spotting the action.

"A taxi," Peter said enthusiastically. The yob was probably looking forward to assaulting the driver.

A taxi it might have to be, for Ward wasn't about to rent a second car. Yes, they might get all the way to the passage, but Ward would have no future in this time. Identification of the car left behind at the switch spot would lead straight to him.

Then Simon, perhaps the real genius of the lot, piped up. "Why not use the Lady's cart?"

**J** ust let it get a little darker, Ward pleaded. Five more minutes and the worst of the lingering twilight would be gone.

He could barely believe their luck. He, all the Gang, had been resigned the snatch would take place in full daylight. Yet the clock was ticking past eight thirty and still the Princes had not come down.

Back around seven, when a taxi dropped off a blond lad, Ward had braced for it to go down within seconds. From their position behind a hedge a hundred yards away, Bray could not confirm a resemblance with Edward IV, even with the binoculars. But that the lad immediately went over to the Trooper strongly indicated he was one of the Princes.

Ward about peed in his pants. For decades he had sought the Princes, at least sought them in parchment and ruins. To see one of them stride in the flesh was beyond a miracle. It was beyond all—

An elbow nudging his ribs had brought him back to the matter at hand.

"Be ready," Bray had warned as the Prince went into the Georgian row house. Ward had tensed with expectation this Prince would momentarily emerge with the other. Ward hoped Simon and Peter, hidden further back up the street, were alert.

But the minutes crept excruciatingly past and the brothers did not come out. As seven thirty passed Ward wondered if Margaret were sitting in the street as decoy while the brothers slipped out back. Bray voiced the same concern. Perhaps, said Ward, but they had no choice anyway but to wait.

So they waited. Seven forty-five, eight, eight fifteen. Bray fidgeted worse and worse, and so did Ward. But he kept reminding Bray that the clock worked for rather than against them. The approaching dark would be their greatest ally.

Finally at eight twenty-five Lady Margaret honked her horn. The sound jolted Ward, but it also told the harrowing roller coaster ride of the past several days was about to reach its climax.

Ward found his heart beating like a bass drum. His right hand gripped hard on a roll of duct tape while the left hand flicked the blade of a box cutter. His mouth had never felt drier; he doubted he could even spit. He knew he was nearly hyperventilating. A man most lacking in religious conviction, he asked God's help in what both he and God understood was a most nefarious act.

Suddenly a jogger, a young woman, came loping around the curve. His lungs stopped working as he wondered if this were the unforeseen but inevitable monkey wrench that would foul the whole operation.

The front door of the Georgian opened and a tall blond man emerged carrying a suitcase. Not the blond who had gone in. The man had to pause under the portico as the girl went past, then he stepped onto the sidewalk. Behind him came the other blond, also carrying a bag.

Ward watched the events unfold as if a spectator. Simon and Peter, dressed in T-shirts and shorts, ran past their position. They ran too fast for casual joggers but thankfully the Princes at the rear of the SUV had their backs to them. The boys closed the distance rapidly.

Then Bray shoved him and the two were scrambling down the street. There was still enough light to see what unfolded clearly. The Princes finally turned, but by then Simon and Peter were within five yards. The Princes just stared as the hands of the boys flung dirt into their eyes. The same hands then landed devastating blows to the abdomen and the Princes collapsed to the pavement.

Simon then rushed to the driver's door of the Trooper. Ward saw a fist fly and he knew Lady Margaret had probably been knocked cold. He hoped that were the extent of the damage. Amazingly Ward had not heard a sound uttered by the victims. Nor did any cries of alarm come from the open windows on the street.

As he and Bray reached the vehicle Simon and Peter were already hoisting the Princes into the back seat. Ward tossed in the duct tape and box cutter, then slipped behind the steering wheel. Lady Margaret was crumpled against the opposite door. Ward gave thanks the engine was running and as soon as the Gang was all aboard he depressed the accelerator.

He did not leave rubber. Though he was breathing heavily from the sprint to the Trooper and the adrenaline rush had supercharged his body, he eased into the intersection and turned left. A quick check in the rear view mirror showed no one running after them and still he could not hear anyone shouting.

He could not believe it. The snatch had gone exactly as planned. Nothing ever went exactly as planned. And dark had blessedly fallen to shield their getaway.

Ward drove below the speed limit while the boys worked busily in the back seat. He heard the rip and tear of duct tape as it was applied to the Princes. Beside him Bray was attending to the inert Margaret with real concern.

"Is she alive?" asked Ward. That would not do at all, if they had killed Henry's mum.

"She breathes. I do not think her jaw is broken."

Ward reached Spaniards Road without incident.

The Peugeot waited for them in a pool of darkness on a side street off Spaniards. He pulled the Trooper behind the Peugeot and killed the engine. As planned they sat silently a moment in the vehicle as their eyes and ears sought out unwelcome observers. They saw no one and could hear only the hum of insects.

Bray gave the order and they transferred their victims into the Peugeot. The tall blond went into the trunk, the other blond on the back seat floor, and still unconscious Lady Margaret down between Bray's legs as he occupied the shotgun seat. It all took only a couple of minutes. Again Ward marveled at the smoothness of it all.

Ward started the Peugeot. He did an unhurried U-turn and headed back towards Spaniards Road.

Then Peter's arm was upon him again, but this time it thumped his back in a show of congratulation. Both boys praised him, and even Bray was smiling broadly.

"And you were worried," said Bray. "See, it has all turned out well. The King will reward you greatly."

Ward did not point out they were still two hundred miles plus from the passage. But he could not restrain his own rising euphoria. All the real risk was behind them. The Peugeot had a full tank of gas, the prisoners were helpless, and the journey would take less than four hours under cover of darkness.

The boys had broken into boisterous song. Ward could barely keep from emitting his own war hoops as he turned back onto Spaniards Road. He had done it! He had triumphed in this desperate and improbable affair, and now his life would change immeasurably. Oh, the glory that lay ahead. Acclaim, wealth, and the profound satisfaction of triumphing over those who had thwarted and ridiculed him.

Then the Prince in the back seat groaned through the duct tape over his mouth. Ward tried to seal his ears to that sound born certainly of pain and possibly of terror. His ears instead amplified the sound.

The Peugeot passed by Jack Straw Castle and merged into Heath Street. Luck had been with them all afternoon and evening, and it continued as a gap in oncoming traffic allowed him to immediately turn into West Heath Road. Another mile and he would be on A407 and on the way back to M4.

As Ward completed the turn he was stunned to find himself amidst a column of horses. Horses ridden by soldiers in full red dress uniform. Oh Christ, his mind screamed. Somehow they had stumbled into a ceremonial procession. But, but, but, what was such a procession doing in Hampstead? In the dark?

His foot fumbled to hit the brake but it could not find the pedal. Then horses were rearing and neighing, men were dismounting and shouting, and Ward inexplicably found himself rolling on the pavement. He scrambled to his feet, only to be meet by a soldier swinging a rifle butt. The butt hit his head.

### Part Three

### Restorer of the World

Chapter 12

**W** ard woke to splitting pain. He groaned, then remembered the descending rifle butt. His hand groped to find bandages covering his crown. He tried to rise, but a redoubling of pain kept him prone on a bed.

His eyes struggled to focus. All he could see was white. Then his vision cleared enough to detect a wall of fabric surrounding the bed. The fabric rose only a third of the way towards the high ceiling. Along the ceiling ran a long row of chandeliers, and he puzzled why the chandeliers held candles instead of light bulbs.

Then he forgot pain and candles as despair racked him. He had been caught. Caught red handed committing a felony held only a little less heinous than first degree murder. He would be a British prisoner the rest of his days. He wanted to cry.

Undoubtedly beyond the wall of white cloth a couple of policemen sat guard. Who would be hauling him off to a cell once his head mended. Oh, he was an utter asshole. He should have fled from Bray the first time he had the car to himself.

A puff of breeze caressed his cheek and the sheets fluttered. With surprise he saw the tall window behind the bed was wide open, its screen removed. He must be pretty high up for them to expect he wouldn't attempt to escape. Or jump. Perhaps they hoped he would.

He flinched as the white wall parted. Then a nurse—no, a nun—entered carrying a bowl and towels. She flinched in turn, probably at finding him conscious. He wondered how long he'd been out.

Then the woman, covered in wimple and habit that was more Prussian blue than black, smiled. She smiled with rapture.

"Good morning, dear sir. How do you feel?"

Through the throb in his head Ward stared befuddled. Why was a nun attending him? And why was she positively aglow, calling him "dear sir"? Revived patient he might be, but this patient had violently waylaid three people, one of them an elderly woman.

"Where am I?" His voice croaked from a very dry throat. "Am I in a prison hospital?" God, he hoped he wasn't in Wandsworth.

The nun laughed merrily. "Oh lord, why would you ever think that?"

Was she retarded—or did she just belong to a cloistered order, well insulated from news of the outside world?

"Can I speak to your supervisor?" he asked.

Her brow knitted. "Super-visor? Perhaps you mean the Cardinal? He is near."

"The Cardinal?"

"Yes, dearest and most wonderful sir. He wanted to be first to talk to you." She turned and disappeared.

Ward struggled to a sitting position. The pain in his head swelled to unbearable, but he refused to lie back down.

What was going on? A cardinal wanted to talk to him? Was this a tactic of Scotland Yard, to have a prelate—a Catholic one at that—get him off guard before the detectives or inspectors or whatever began the real interrogation?

Then a voice, a familiar voice, called from beyond the cloth. The voice radiated excitement.

"God in his wisdom and glory be praised. Oh mighty Father, you have restored the Restorer."

The sheets were thrust aside. A red-gowned man, silver haired and thin as a rail, stood before him. The man beamed with even greater wattage than had the nun.

He stepped forward, knelt on one knee, and clasped Ward's hands. "Lord Ward, I am ever in your debt."

At this point Ward knew he was hallucinating. The blow to his head had obviously been severe. He might even be in a coma and his mind was probably fighting to stay in the coma. Stay in this escapist situation where people heartily addressed him as "dear sir" and "lord" and where no one sought to lock him up and throw away the key.

Then he recognized the man. Ward reeled with disbelief. It was Donald Jeffress, the quadriplegic who had tipped him about the passage. What was he doing mobile? And in cardinal's garb?

Jeffress rose and sat on the bed beside Ward. His smile retained its intensity. "A million questions, Roger?"

Ward swallowed hard. "I need some water."

Jeffress clapped his hands. "Esther. Bring the lord cool water."

The nun quickly reappeared with a crystal tumbler bearing chilled water. Ward gulped the liquid greedily.

"Why do you call me 'lord'"?

Jeffress veritably bounced on the bed. "Because the King has so created you: Roger, Lord Ward. You will be presented at court when you are well."

Ward shook his head. "Aren't I under arrest? For attempted kidnapping?"

Jeffress' thin chest propelled a triumphant laugh. "You are the beloved of the realm for successfully kidnapping. Oh dear Roger, you have thwarted Satan and restored the world to its intended state. Your name shall be honored for centuries to come."

"What the hell are you talking about? Am I in an insane asylum?"

"I know you are astounded. The shock nearly killed me the first time I experienced the change of history, back in 1965. In an instant I was plucked from the world you know and placed in this one. Of course, I thrived here. Then in 1988 the world of Satan returned and to my horror I lay paralyzed. Now in 2003 the final restoration has occurred and I stand again. You will shortly witness just how high I stand."

Ward fought off the urge to scream. This was insanity. He must be locked in a dreadful psychosis.

"Roger, I know this is difficult to comprehend. I wanted to explain it all to you when you saw me at the nursing home, but of course you would have dismissed my words as lunacy. I can tell you now that an apocalyptic struggle has been going on since 1399—or since 1904, on this side of the passage. Prior to the forced abdication of Richard II there had been only one history. The rightful history."

Ward clearly heard the words of the excited man beside him, but his brain had great difficulty processing them.

"I hardly have to tell you of the woe that has befallen England in the century since Richard II fell. Your fine work on the Wars of the Roses chronicles much of the damage. But unbeknownst to you another war has been waged, one of ultimate import. Between the forces of God and Satan for which path history will take. God is allied with York, and Satan is allied with Lancaster and Tudor. The world in which you grew up, the world of so many atrocities, is the world bequeathed by foul Lancaster. This world, the one you have restored, is the holy triumph of York."

Ward shook his head. "None of this makes sense."

"Look at it this way. When you went through the passage, you journeyed to a world five hundred years hence. During the change of history you have also journeyed to a different world, but it exists in the present. This is still the Twenty-first Century."

He was still totally confused. "I—you said a king is on the throne. Prince Charles has ascended?"

"No, no. Thomas II reigns, and he is a direct descendent of Edward V. The Plantagenet line is unbroken."

"Edward V?"

"Don't you see? It is you who caused this. It is you who has restored Edward to his throne. It is you who has cast down Lancaster and Tudor, agents of the devil. After a century of battle, they are at last defeated."

"But we weren't trying to make Edward king. We were taking him to Henry."

Then Ward wondered if he should have said that.

Jeffress patted Ward's knee. "I know. We have extracted a complete account from Reginald Bray and his underlings. No matter. The result is exactly as I expected."

Ward blinked. As expected?

"Yes, you were used, start to finish. For that I profoundly apologize. I knew the Tudor would try to capture the Princes if he could learn their location. I knew his mother knew the location, and you were the perfect catalyst to force both their hands."

"But Henry would have sent them to Russia...or killed them."

"He never gets the chance." Jeffress became grave. "The changes of history seem to have a mind of their own. The one in 1965—1460 on the other side of the passage—occurred when the Duke of York was killed at Wakefield. Which should not have altered anything since Lancaster then occupied the throne.

"But the Duke's death brought to the forefront his son—the future Edward IV. As you know, he was a valiant warrior with a magnetic personality. His great abilities guaranteed York would prevail. So at that moment, four months before Lancaster was annihilated at Towton Moor, the change took place."

As Jeffress spoke, his hands gesticulated grandly. Ward saw a gold band on the wedding finger. A married cardinal?

"The next change of history occurred in 1483, when Richard seized the Prince of Wales at Stoney Stratford. This of course preceded by two years the Tudor victory at Bosworth Field. But the Princes' disappearance in 1483 robbed Richard III of any legitimacy. From the moment of seizure he was destined to fall.

"And now." The Cardinal beamed anew. "The final change. I always expected it would occur once the Princes began their return, willfully or not. Don't you see, when Edward emerges from that stand of woods in Wales his restoration is inevitable. The tax mad Henry grows ever more unpopular. That, combined with the frenzy of nostalgia which must greet the long lost Princes, will sweep away Tudor. The world will be spared its unholy legacy."

"But..."

"But what?"

"I don't see how Edward's regaining the throne is preordained. If we had gotten them back through the passage, Henry would have immediately rushed them out of the kingdom—rebellion would not have chance to form."

Jeffress shrugged and smiled. "As I said, the changes have a mind of their own. Obviously the return of the Princes incites rebellion, and Edward is crowned. Otherwise we wouldn't sit here. I would still lie in that nursing home, and you would face a life sentence."

Ward gulped at the reminder.

Then he sighed. "This is hard to swallow."

"Indeed. I do not expect you to fully believe—not until what you see and hear in the coming days convinces you."

Ward pointed to the ceiling. "Don't tell me this world has no electricity."

"We do not. You will find us little handicapped by its absence."

"Why would—how can the replacement of Henry with Edward mean no electricity?"

"Come now. The blow to your head still muddies your thought. Your writings accurately foresaw the consequences if the son of Henry VII is never crowned. You termed the reign of Henry VIII 'the hinge of history', for which you received much derision. Well, Lord Ward, you get the last laugh."

Ward did not feel like laughing. "I didn't predict anything this severe."

"You will like this world. I promise it."

"No electricity means no technology."

"We have enough to live comfortably."

Pain again stabbed in his head. "What about aspirin?"

"That we can provide. Our medical capabilities are quite good. No MRI's or chemotherapy, but we have vaccination, anesthesia, and antiseptic procedure."

How comforting. "I could use some aspirin now."

Another clap of hands produced Esther, who went scurrying.

While they waited Ward asked, "What was that we ran into? I mean all those soldiers. I thought we'd stumbled into some sort of royal ceremony, but obviously no."

"Oh, you're not far off the mark. You wound up in the rear of a royal bodyguard—which was escorting the Duke of Warrick back from an early evening tryst. The Duke is the King's brother."

"Oh man. I hope we didn't hurt anybody."

"A couple of lads were thrown from their horses and suffered bruises. But your party was the one that suffered real injury. I apologize for the vigor of the troops' reaction; they thought an assassination attempt was in progress. Thank God the captain of the guard kept a cool head and prevented shots being fired."

Ward gave thanks too.

Esther returned with a white pill that looked as big as a Brazil nut. Ward said he would take it later.

The cardinal pulled a shiny object from his robe. Ward was surprised to see an exquisitely crafted pocket watch, which even sported a second hand.

Jeffress noted his admiration. "Hardly the product of a backward civilization."

"It's beautiful."

"It was made in England, not Switzerland, I am proud to say." A smug smile. "The Switzerland of our world exports little."

The watch went back inside the robe. "Lord Ward, I must leave you. Affairs of state." The stick of a man rose. Ward made to follow suit.

"No, no, Roger." A hand gently pressed his shoulder, but it was enough to keep him on the bed. "You must rest. I will send Physician Michael to evaluate you, but I would guess you will not be ready for court until at least the end of the week."

"And what day is this?"

"Wednesday. August 27." He called again beyond the sheets. "Esther, bring the Chronicles."

The plump little workhorse appeared with a coffee-table sized book at least two inches thick. She placed the leather bound tome in the cardinal's hands. Jeffress in turn bequeathed it to Ward. The book weighed a ton.

"A gift from His Majesty. These are the Chronicles of Jonathan of Thakeham. They will explain much. Read when you can. I will return on the morrow."

Then Jeffress was gone. Esther remained. "May I fetch you anything, dear sir?"

"Some more water, please." He'd try to down that pill. But better first to break it into quarters.

Ward pried open the book. To his surprised delight the first page bore beautifully penned script. A well-drawn illumination of a blond monarch, who wore a halo as well as a crown, graced the upper left hand corner. The script identified the monarch as Richard II. Ward didn't recall much saintly about that weak, neurotic king, but what the hell, this wasn't his book.

The rush of pleasure continued as he leafed through the gilt-edged pages. King Thomas must hold him in high regard indeed to part with such a priceless work. He wondered how many centuries ago some dedicated monk had applied skilled calligraphy to produce this magnificent volume.

Further examination revealed an authoring date of 1987.

**A** ccompanied by cavalry front and rear the carriage rolled smoothly over the slate gray surface of the road. Ward had to agree that the spring mounts and rubber rimmed wheels produced a ride rivaling the comfort of an automobile. And one much more quiet.

"I'll have you know this highway was built by Edward V", said his coach mate. "During his glorious reign, he built over four hundred miles of all weather roadway. It was the first time since the Roman era that an Englishman could travel overland free of mud or dust."

Of course, real quiet would include Jeffress shutting his mouth. After a week Ward was sick of the man's perpetual animation—and boosterism. Best not to show his annoyance, though, since he owed the Cardinal for all the good fortune coming his way.

In this version of England, Jeffress was certainly one person you wanted on your side. The doctors attending to Ward said not only did the Cardinal serve as primary advisor to the King, he was also vastly wealthy thanks to a fortuitous marriage.

Jeffress certainly had come a long way from his pitiful beginnings on this side of the passage. It had taken persistence for Ward to get him to open up about his past, but once started Jeffress had riveted Ward's attention for a full day recounting the tale that had begun with the flight from Owen Tudor into the wartime England of 1944. One day Ward would write it up.

Brilliant sunshine lit the lush green of the Middlesex countryside. This pristine landscape of gentle hills speckled with sheep and the occasional manor house was a vast improvement over the suburban sprawl the Gang of Four had encountered on the ride into London.

The carriage was moving fast enough to generate a considerable breeze. He welcomed the breeze because he wore too much clothing for this warm day of late summer. He'd much prefer cotton, which had comfortably clad him all week, to these enveloping bags of taffeta and samite. Anyone seeing him in the real 21st—or perhaps even the 15th—century would have burst into laughter. These duds were more fit for maternity wear than formal attire for court.

Ward had been nervous at breakfast, and he was getting more so now. They couldn't be that far from Richmond Palace. Jeffress had assured Ward that the Royal Family eagerly awaited his arrival, would fawn all over him along with everyone else, but this was his first time in the big time. Despite the Cardinal's patient tutoring Ward was terrified he would violate some arcane bit of protocol.

The Cardinal patted Ward's arm. "Relax, Roger. As long as you don't spit on anyone, you will be fine. However, do remember to go to one knee when the King first greets you."

With his luck he'd ram his kneecap and howl.

"You say the King doesn't remember any of his alternative life?" Ward asked. Jeffress had confided that in the real 21st Thomas Caster had been a tour guide.

"Nothing. Except for deja vous flashes, which is the norm."

"Did you tell him?"

"I did."

"Wasn't he embarrassed?"

"No, he was as happy as I was. And as you should be."

Ward had been nonplused to learn he had not existed in this 21st. Jeffress, who seemed to know everything, explained that one of Ward's ancestors had died while on campaign in Saxony during the early 1600's. During the final phase of the annihilation of the Lutherans.

"I am grateful for all you've done for me."

"There is more to come. But I will leave that to the King."

More? Ward wanted to query, but then the carriage crested a hill and ahead lay a complex of red brick buildings long gone in the real 21st century.

Richmond Palace awaited a half mile ahead. Ward almost lost his chef-like hat as he leaned out the window to get a better look. His mouth gaped at the sight of perhaps a thousand people assembled in neat squares before the multi-windowed palace front. Several of the squares consisted of red clad soldiers and one appeared to be a military band.

Holy shit, he thought. All for me.

The escort peeled off and the carriage glided up the broad brick road before the palace. What sounded like tubas oompah-ing accompanied the carriage over the last two hundred yards of its journey. A measured chant joined the tubas. Ward heard the thousand voices call: "Bless the Restorer, Bless the Restorer."

The people in the squares waved, not wildly, but in tempo with their chant. Everyone grinned like loons. Everyone looked ridiculous in their balloonish clothing, however much the vibrant hues of silk shimmered in the morning sun.

The soldiers, who did wear well fitting uniforms, stood ramrod straight. They held their rifles with bayonets at stiff present arms. But they too smiled.

The carriage stopped before a fan portico. Ward's heart raced as he saw a man at the top of the white marble steps in the full regalia of a monarch. The man gazed benevolently down at him.

The King looked much as Jeffress said: tall, broad shouldered, long jawed and narrow nosed. As for the Cardinal's pronouncement King Tom at best possessed average intelligence, Ward would judge that for himself.

Someone opened the carriage door. Ward just stared up at the King and the group about him that included women and children. The Royal Family, of course. Then he tensed as he spotted two blond men at the edge of the group. It was the Princes, the men he had tried to kidnap, probably the only ones at Richmond Palace not smiling.

A hand gently pushed his elbow. "Best to get out, Lord Ward. And remember the knee."

Ward took a deep breath and carefully stepped from the carriage. The King spread wide his arms and the tubas went into overdrive. The chants swelled.

Ward climbed the steps and managed not to trip on his pantaloons. Upon arrival at the portico landing he removed his hat and safely made it onto one knee.

He parroted the salutation the Cardinal had drilled into him. "God bless Thomas the Second and all the issue of his loins. God bless the Unified Kingdom. God bless the Holy Father and the Apostolic Church. God bless the Conversion. God bless us all." His tongue running fast forward, Ward continued. "I, Roger Ward, Your Majesty's humble and devoted subject, am honored that this day you have deigned to receive me. You will always have my fealty."

The King's voice, trembling with emotion, rang out. "Arise Lord Ward, our Restorer. It is we who humbly greet you. Arise and enter our unworthy dwelling."

The King in his ardor did not wait for Ward to get up. Powerful hands gripped and Ward was airborne, then placed on his feet. The tubas blared joyfully. The crowd hurrahed.

The Royal Family adoringly patted his arms and back as the King led him through the high arched entrance. Blessed coolness met Ward as they stepped into the cavernous Great Hall. The King took him across a red and blue harlequin carpet toward a dais upon which sat a throne.

They passed between a double line of clerics clad in moss green vestments. With palms pressed together and eyes fixed on heaven, they chanted the Te Deum. Ward gave thanks they weren't accompanied by tubas.

As the King took the throne he bade Ward to stand at his right hand. The Royal Family filed behind them on the dais. The Cardinal came up and stood at the King's left hand. Jeffress nodded approvingly at Ward.

The crowd was reforming in the Great Hall, again in squares. Now however they moved in silence. When in place they stood as still as exhibits in a wax museum. Ward blinked hard. This was just too much weirdness.

Ward jerked as the King's deep baritone rang out. "Nobles, knights, ladyfolk! Today we set eyes for the first time on our beloved subject Roger of Ward. He comes to us only recently recovered from grievous wounds received in battling heretics. He achieved victory in this battle, and although I cannot reveal the particulars, be assured his bravery has saved us all. Hail Roger of Ward!"

The crowd returned three resolute hails.

Trumpets blasted and Ward jerked again. His head craned up to a balcony high overhead, from which a battery of trumpets protruded. The instruments were almost lost among the multitude of quartered flags that hung from the beamed ceiling.

"All hear!" shouted the King. God, his voice boomed. Which probably hadn't at all handicapped Thomas Caster as a tour guide.

"On this day, the sixth of September in the year of the Son two thousand three, I do this decree: that my honorable, virtuous, and loyal subject Roger of Ward, formerly created Lord Ward, I now create Our Earl of Kent. Furthermore, from crown estates and those generously donated by Archbishop Jeffress, I grant him three estates in Surrey, two in Cornwall, four in Essex, four in Dorset, three in Somerset, and two in Norfolk, three in Suffolk, Islington Tower in London, and Penshurst Place in Kent. Furthermore, I grant him one part in five hundred of tariffs collected on maize, one part in one thousand on tariffs on tobacco, and one part in two thousand on tariffs on rum to him and his heirs running to the fifth generation. Furthermore—"

Ward's mouth fell open. His ears must be deceiving him. When the Cardinal mentioned "additional honors", Ward had hoped at most to get another couple estates in addition to the five that came with his barony. More realistically the King would give him some horses and hunting dogs, and maybe a couple more books.

This! Pardon him, it was insane. An earldom, a two dozen additional estates, a cut of tariffs on prized commodities. And if he'd heard right, one of his new properties was Penshurst Place. Every time he came to England he had tried to visit that jewel in the fair Kent countryside.

He looked over at the Cardinal, who smiled with great satisfaction. Ward smiled back. This of course was Jeffress' work. Saying thank you oh so much for getting me out of that quadriplegic's bed, even if you had no idea or intention of so doing.

The list of grants, more minor now, went on. People had said Jeffress carried prime influence with the King, and what better proved it? He ranked as a modern day Wolsey. Of course Cardinal Wolsey had barely escaped the axe—by dying of heartbreak after Henry VIII dismissed him—so perhaps that was not the most apt comparison.

At last the shower of benefice ended. The King called for more hails and the assembled peers and gentry hailed. Ward stood on wobbly knees as he received the accolades. He could feel himself smiling wide. Grinning like a fool. But damn, he had reason to exult.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw two gentlemen not joining in the homage. The Princes didn't look in any better mood than when he saw them outside. He couldn't begrudge them their sour faces; he'd tried hard to ruin them. It must gall the lads in the extreme to behold their captor so lauded—and rewarded.

The trumpets weighed in and Ward began to get light headed. It had already been a long day. He appreciated the adulation, but he needed to sit down somewhere—alone—and sip slowly from a tall glass of bourbon and ice.

Things settled down shortly. The King had him whisked away to quarters overlooking the Thames, where he washed up and took a short nap. Grooms of the chamber roused him before sleep could render him too groggy and had him change into a very comfortable cotton gown. They assured him the brilliant saffron color was entirely appropriate.

Pages led him outside the palace to grounds where a series of pavilions stood. Behind the white pavilions great willows arose along the riverbank. The pavilions and willows rippled in a refreshing breeze.

Each pavilion contained a score or so of round tables. People wearing gowns of every hue sat at the tables, while servants in snug fitting blue uniforms hustled about with huge platters laden with plates and bowls. Most people were already well into the midday meal. They gave a cheer as they saw him coming, but quickly returned to downing chow.

Which was fine with him. He was plenty hungry himself.

He was escorted to the King's table. The King, his mouth full of food, waved Ward to the seat beside him. The Cardinal, still in red robe, again perched on the other side. Around the table Ward faced the Queen, the Duke the Gang of Four had nearly run down, and four pre-teen children who gaped at him.

A heavy hand thumped his back. "Roger of Ward," bellowed the King, flecks of food still on his teeth. "Welcome, welcome. What can we get you to eat?"

A servant hovered nearby. Ward eyed the King's plate. A big piece of mutton and rice with gravy filled the broad plate. A side dish of tomatoes and greens sat untouched. Beside the plates stood a tall glass of brown liquid and ice; the liquid was most assuredly not bourbon since the children were drinking the same. Had to be tea.

"I'll have the same as His Majesty."

The King laughed and thumped his back. The Cardinal smiled wryly. Ward wanted to protest he wasn't currying favor. The King's food looked and smelled good, and if pedestrian, it certainly beat the concoctions he'd endured in the 15th Century.

The King introduced Ward to his table mates. The King's brother and the Queen greeted him warmly, and the children maintained their awe as their mother announced their names. Ward had to say the family was a plain looking lot. Not homely but all trace of the Plantagenet glamour had vanished.

No matter. King Tom was treating him fine.

Ward's meal arrived and thankfully no one bothered him as he ate. The children instead directed questions at the Cardinal, who regaled them with the cover story he and Ward had invented. By now the Cardinal had probably told the story a hundred times:

That fateful evening Ward thwarted an assassination attempt on Duke Harold and captured the heretical agent Reginald Bray. If successful Bray would have moved on to kill the remainder of the Royal Family. In the resulting chaos, Calvinist moles in the kingdom would have tried to place one of their own on the throne.

The two girls were near tears and the two boys white faced at the Cardinal's tale. With a choked voice the Queen blessed Ward, and the Duke—whose own eyes must have told a different story—thanked Ward profusely for saving his life. The King again whacked Ward's back. Jeffress told the tale with absolute conviction and for the first time Ward feared him.

The man had treated him with nothing but favor, but Ward must remember that Jeffress in his first decade this side of the passage made his living as a criminal. He rose from a pocket picking street urchin to the head of a gang involved in protection shakedowns. Jeffress admitted to having men maimed, and one killed.

Those were the bad days before the epiphany that brought him back to the God he had abandoned when his own father died at the hands of Owen Tudor. The Cardinal professed deep remorse over the multitude of sins he then committed. Ward believed him.

He shook off his unease. Jeffress was solidly on his side, and a man of God to boot.

The pavilions contained a courtyard of their own, a long rectangle of close-cropped grass. In one corner musicians were gathering. They held mainly string instruments and a few windpipes.

They played. A strange rhythm, definitely not composed by Vivaldi, arose from the strings and pipes. The rhythm slowly increased pace, increased pace, peaked, then plummeted. Repetition rendered it almost hypnotic. Very strange indeed.

Couples stepped onto the emerald grass and began to dance. Ward stared as pairs revolved around each other, following the rhythm precisely. Slow, not so slow, quicker, real quick, full stop. And again. They had to be kidding. But they weren't, as more couples flocked to the grass. Ward even saw the shorter of the two Princes take a partner into the rectangle.

The Queen eyed the King and they excused themselves to join the dancers. The royal kids followed suit. The Duke's head and shoulders bobbed in sync with the beguiling music, and Ward was de facto left alone with the Cardinal.

"You should join them, my Earl of Kent. It would be appreciated."

"I'd just make a fool of myself."

"Observe yon Duke of York." Jeffress nodded toward Richard Plantagenet. "He is doing well, although he has never stepped to this music either."

Ward detected a hint of threat in the Cardinal's gentle prodding. Ward reminded himself to stay in the man's good graces, give him no cause for offence.

He smiled. "Can't let a mere Duke outdo me."

"That is the spirit."

"But I don't see his brother anywhere."

"Oh, the once and future king pleaded fatigue. I am afraid everything here fatigues him. He is most impatient to start for the passage."

"When does he go, anyway?"

"Perhaps another month. We are assembling adequate insurance."

"Insurance?"

"A regiment of rifle bearing cavalry."

Ward puffed his cheeks. "I see."

"We cannot be one hundred percent certain that Edward's mere appearance guarantees the fall of Tudor."

"Those rifles were breech loaders, weren't they?" Which would mean a high rate of fire.

"Yes."

"They'll shred even the best plate armor."

"That is the intention."

Even if Henry Tudor could muster 20,000 men, this "modern" regiment would scythe them like wheat. Goodbye Henry.

His eyes returned to the dancers—where he spotted a copper haired goddess. She revolved a mere twenty yards away. She was taller than her partner, far more graceful, and with surprise Ward realized she looked at him.

Ward watched fascinated as her twists and turns revealed a lush body that her baggy gown could not obscure. Her hair shimmered like silk in the midday sun, and her cream skin glowed. Her emerald eyes continued to seek out his.

"I wondered how long it would take for you to notice her," said the Cardinal. "She is Deborah, the only issue of Sir George Lyttleton. She is the fairest maiden in the kingdom. I do not exaggerate."

Ward didn't think he did. "She must have been a supermodel in the real world."

He bit his tongue. He better not be calling the other world the real one, especially around the Cardinal.

. "She did not exist," said the Cardinal. "At any rate, in the here and now she is not betrothed. And by coincidence—I assure you it is coincidence—her father's estate lies in Kent. Barely eight miles from Penshurst Place."

Ward wasn't buying that. He doubted anything was coincidence where Jeffress was involved.

"I believe she would like to dance with you. Right now."

"Uh—is it proper to cut in?"

"The Restorer of the World can do much anything he pleases."

Ward gazed again upon the magnificence of Deborah Lyttleton. He gathered himself and rose.

Chapter 13

**F** or the first time in her life the two Princes stood before Margaret not as supplicants but as dictators of her fate. How they must savor that, she thought. Especially Edward.

But on this gray and dank day she thanked God—the God she was beginning to despair of—for their unannounced presence. This might be her only opportunity to reverse the disaster now in the making.

Both of the handsome young men were smartly clad in the fashion of the late 15th Century instead of the sloppy attire that adorned the peerage in this benighted world. Both wore superbly tailored blue velvet jerkins over their crimson doublets.

She knew they did not want her to miss the point. Blue and crimson, the livery colors of the House of York. To rub it in even further, Edward wore a badge on his chest with lion holding ostrich feathers.

"I trust, madam, you find your lodgings comfortable?" asked Edward. She could not tell if he were mocking her or not

The Princes had arrived at her quarters, a manor house near Dartford guarded by a company of troops, only minutes before.

"Quite comfortable." she bit back sarcasm. The luxuriously provided manor house overflowed with servants. Servants who would leap to fulfill her every request—except the request that would bring her a swift horse and a day's head start toward Wales. Servants so devoted they attended her four at a time even while she sat in the privy.

"We trust we have not interrupted anything important?"

She was certain now he mocked. Is that why he had come, to gloat?

"Only my reading." She pointed to the huge volume on the mahogany reading stand. "Devastating reading."

Beside Edward Richard rocked on his feet. He tried to smile, but failed.

Edward did smile. "The Chronicles of Jonathan, if I'm not mistaken. Glorious reading."

"Would you gentlemen care for anything to drink or eat?" Margaret gestured toward the hovering quartet of servants.

"Please dismiss them, Lady Margaret," said Richard. "We have private words for you."

The four women hesitated to depart. Obviously they had strict orders to keep her under constant eye and ear.

"Begone," commanded Edward, as if already king in his own domain. The women eyed each other, then left the parlor.

The trio took seats before the fireplace, which contained a low blaze. Margaret savored its heat. On the mantle above ticked a baby grandfather clock.

Edward's voice dropped low and he leaned forward in his chair. Margaret in turn leaned and strained to catch the thin voice of the would-be monarch.

"We have a proposition for you, madam, one I was not originally disposed to entertain. You may thank Dickon that these very generous terms are put before you."

My, was he puffed with himself. This boy-man who had floundered despite all the money she'd poured into his upbringing and education.

Margaret worked hard to keep distaste from her face. Indeed it was now she who was the supplicant. The only weapons she possessed were her wit and hopefully persuasive tongue.

She forced charm into her voice. "I thank you, Richard." Her appeals would have to target Richard. Richard would take the larger view while Edward was fixed only on the throne taken from him.

Edward's voice dropped even lower. She could barely hear him. As the words came out, she wished she couldn't hear him.

"On the other side of time, you will carry these terms to your son. If he immediately abdicates, I will create him Duke of Pembroke. You, he and Arthur will reside in Pembroke Castle and remain within the borders of the shire till the end of your lives. Which we all know is 1502 for Arthur and 1509 for you and Henry. In the short time left to him Arthur may not marry."

Margaret's mouth flew open, but Edward put up a hand. "There is more. Considerably more. My sister Elizabeth will remain at Westminster, never to share Henry's bed again. You should not object, since it is your son's impregnations that will kill her. Hopefully now she will live to see my and Dickon's grandchildren."

Margaret wanted to snap that the Chronicles still had Elizabeth dying in 1503. Margaret desperately fought rage—and hate—as Edward continued to spell out his long awaited revenge.

"Your infamous grandson, the never to be Henry the Eighth, will enter the priesthood as planned. I will see he is appointed abbot of some remote monastery. He is never to set foot outside its walls. All of your granddaughters will profess and retire to the convent of their choice. They likewise will never leave the grounds."

Now her heart hammered. She could feel fire on her face. If she had a dagger she would sink it to the hilt in the chest of the creature before her that sneered so triumphantly.

"I see that madam is not going to perform a jig."

Richard grimaced. "Ned..."

"If these terms are not accepted, I will in quick order execute you, Henry, Harry, Arthur, and Uncle Jasper too. Which is what I wanted to do in the first place."

Edward's pale blue eyes returned hate in full measure.

"Be aware that I will enter my realm with soldiers armed with repeating rifles and artillery. So accept that your position is hopeless, even though I know you are an inveterate conspirator."

"I have fired one of the rifles myself," said Richard. "It is accurate even in my unpracticed hands to four hundred yards. Henry's men would have no chance."

"None," said Edward. "He must yield the throne. If not, the executioner's axe will swing. Am I understood?"

Margaret could not speak. In the silence she heard rain drops begin to pelt the broadly arched windows of the parlor. Finally she nodded.

"We have an agreement, then? You will advise your son to accept?"

She emitted a strangled yes.

"This is for the best," said Richard. "An orderly transition with no blood spilled."

"You spill the blood of the world." She instantly regretted the words. She had to appeal with reason, not ranting.

"We will depart in mid October," said Edward. "If all goes well, I will be crowned on Christmas day. You and your kinfolk will attend so the kingdom may witness your acquiescence."

Margaret turned to Richard. "Is this not a demented world? Is the throne worth that price?"

"This world is hardly demented, Lady Margaret. Strange, yes, but that's no crime."

"I know you see what I see. This world is an abomination."

"Because the Tudor line was cut short?" taunted Edward.

"No—"

"Oh, yes. If your line had led to this world, you would heartily embrace it."

"They are barely advanced beyond the technology of the 16th Century. The Industrial and Scientific Revolutions never occurred. All the genius of Western Civilization is forfeit."

"They have flush toilets," said Richard with an unconvincing smile. "That's enough genius for me."

"You don't for a second believe that. You are a citizen of the other present—the true present. That is your time and place. Not this." Despite herself Margaret's voice shrilled.

"Don't presume to tell us when or where we belong, madam." Edward's chill eyes bore into hers. Then he shook his head. "I would think you would welcome this world. It has nearly achieved universal conversion to Christianity. For a woman who hears Mass five times a day, that should throw you into ecstasy."

Again she turned to Richard, this time in desperation. "You know the Chronicles say you die in 1515?"

"Yes." He appeared unconcerned.

"You have only seventeen more years. You could expect at least fifty in the world you belong."

"Lady Margaret, I belong at my brother's side. Helping rule England."

"What about your grandson Robert?" Robert the Burner, they called him. A true child of Satan, who among his many atrocities had incinerated a whole city of Protestants.

Richard's face darkened. Now he would not meet her eyes. At last she had pierced his delusion that the replacement of Tudor with Plantagenet didn't matter.

"He was a monster, Richard."

Edward cut in. "Yes, he destroyed Hamburg. Fifteen thousand died by flame. But in what you term the true present British bombers brought flame to Hamburg—and to Dresden and Pforzheim. Over one hundred thousand died."

"That was in the fight against Hitler."

"Hitler never existed in this world. No Holocaust. No Stalin or his gulag. No Mao and his Cultural Revolution. No Hiroshima, no threat of nuclear annihilation. No Somme or Verdon, no Vietnam, no Bosnia, no Rwanda, no suicide bombers. Tell me, madam, just how do you define demented?"

"You twist words well, Edward. It was Britain that repeatedly defeated tyranny over the past five centuries. Without us—"

Richard rose. "Lady Margaret, I have great respect for you, despite your theft of our birthright. I understand that was part of the maneuvering of the Wars of the Roses. I give thanks you rescued us from certain death at the hands of our uncle, and that you warned us about Ward and Bray. But we are going back. Accept that."

"You mustn't return. You will destroy everything gained. Those gains were generated by one unique history. They will not be duplicated by this one."

Edward also rose. He stood almost a head taller than his brother. A great misfortune he rated so much lower in real stature.

"Are you renouncing our agreement?" Edward asked.

She knew Edward would like nothing better. A vision of the black hooded executioner with his crescent moon instrument loomed in the room. "Our agreement stands—if you do decide to return to 1498."

Against the long window rain pelted harder. An evil thought intruded: perhaps their carriage would wreck on slick pavement. Two broken necks would instantly end this unholy world which masqueraded as holy.

"Madam," said Edward, "we have enjoyed our visit. Now we must proceed to Gravesend. The occupant of the throne requests our presence."

Richard frowned at the insulting reference. "The King wants to take us sail boating. Apparently he is an expert."

"The man has to excel at something," said Edward.

Margaret prayed Thomas II was not too expert. Drowning would also suffice as an end for the Princes.

For the first time she regretted not letting their uncle kill them. At the time two decades ago she had thought her soul would burn forever if she did not intervene. Now she knew rescuing the two children was the worst decision of her life. God demanded wisdom before mercy.

"Edward and Richard, I have one request. That you remove Sir Reginald from Newgate and lodge him decently. He is a good and loyal servant to my son."

Edward's transformation startled her. He flushed, then quivered with anger. Gone was the icy if sneering calm he had displayed from the moment he entered the manor house. She thought he was going to scream a refusal.

Abruptly the ice eyes returned and a cold voice answered. "Why do you think you reside here instead of Newgate jail? Because you did try to warn us. Bray and his mates came to bury us."

"Will you permit him to live with us at Pembroke Castle?"

"Yes. If you keep your word."

"May I write him? To reassure him?"

Edward regarded her incredulously. Then he smiled, and it was a smile she did not want to see again.

"Certainly. You may write anyone you want."

He was of course inviting her to attempt treachery. How joyfully he would pounce if provided with written evidence. Whatever correspondence she sent from here would be thoroughly examined, as would the subsequent behavior of anyone receiving it

Edward called for their capes and the two brothers she had once looked upon as her own sons departed. Through the water-streaked window she watched them climb into an ornate carriage. Their drenched cavalry escort, almost a hundred men, formed front, flank, and rear about the carriage. An officer shouted a command and the presumptive king of England was off.

Immediately the quartet of servants stationed themselves in the parlor again.

The damp was making her joints ache. She asked for aspirin and hot tea to wash it down.

After the aspirin took hold, she began to ponder. Her great hope, that she could sway Richard, was obviously futile. In his depths Richard probably did not dispute her arguments, but the bond between brothers was too strong. They had shared and survived too much, loved each other too much.

Well, whatever she promised Edward, she did not concede defeat. While she had breath she would fight for Tudor and all that Tudor had beget. She and Henry had faced other desperate situations. Will and God had delivered them—and it would again!

She smiled at her bravado. Rifles and artillery cared not a whit about good or evil or the course of history. On the field of battle they trumped long bows and halberds plain and simple. Victory required a different tack.

She need not beat an army, only two men. A hundred regiments would not matter if Edward and Richard never reached Pembrokeshire. She trusted God, but God helped those who helped themselves. She could not rely on slick pavement or stormy waters to kill the Princes. Men, or a man, must do that.

She sipped her tea.

**E** dward fought nausea. The sailboat rolled relentlessly as it cut through the gray swells of the lower Thames. Only the bracing wind with its saltwater scent kept the contents of his stomach from his throat. That, and pride. He would not be sick before this pathetic excuse for a monarch.

Beneath heavy gray skies a horde of seagulls swirled about the boat and their swirling didn't help his stomach any. The swells, large here so near the Channel, added rise and fall and jolt to the rolling. Acrid bile did escape to his throat but he choked it back down. He would not be sick.

He took a little comfort that Cardinal Jeffress shared his torment. The Cardinal smiled gamely at him, and Edward forced a smile back.

Thomas Caster, at the stern of the fifty footer, shouted for Richard to let out more of the jib sail. Edward shook his head as the Duke of York scurried to comply like a bosun's mate. Richard grinned wide and shouted lustily back. At least one of them was enjoying himself.

"You were saying," said the Cardinal.

"Yes." Edward knew he had to proceed carefully. No danger anyone overhearing them as they sat in the center well of the boat. His brother, the fierce looking Colonel Wells and his midget son, and two Council members were all too busy along with a half dozen attendants helping tack the boat. The danger lay in the Cardinal's reaction.

No mistake, the Cardinal and his allies on the Royal Council ran this kingdom. Oh, Caster possessed considerable power, but he had no executive ability. It was a miracle his limited intelligence led him to appoint men like Jeffress to key posts in the kingdom. And another miracle that Caster knew enough to keep out of the Cardinal's way. Produce heirs, sail boats, enter whist tournaments, and leave everything else to Jeffress.

"I wanted to discuss Roger Ward."

The silver haired Cardinal, hunched in a blanket, sat straight up. He turned to face Edward squarely.

"He is under my protection, Your Majesty."

Edward appreciated how Jeffress had addressed him from the start with the correct honorific. He also appreciated how the man always spoke directly to the point.

Edward smiled. "Are my intentions that transparent?"

"I understand why you want him dead. If I may offer the soon to be ruler of England some advice I learned the hard way, never make a state decision based on emotion. Especially when longings for revenge are involved."

"Originally that was my motivation. Yes, I do hate him. I fear him more."

"Fear? Your Majesty, he is the most harmless man imaginable."

"You don't say. He replaced one world with another. He can again."

"Explain." Gone was the honorific. Gone also was the deferential tone. Edward sensed an iron will rising in the thin body, a will that gave him pause.

"I do not raise the issue lightly."

"He is under my protection."

"You owe him nothing."

"Your insolence bothers the King. Now it bothers me."

Edward decided he had to meet will with will. As he should have done at Stoney Stratford.

"For you I have great respect. I would never deliberately insult you. But remember that without me and my brother you are back in bed able to move only your highly intelligent head. You will listen to what I have to say—without emotion."

The Cardinal's jaw clenched. His knuckles whitened. His eyes glared. The Cardinal however did manage to reply with a level voice.

"State your case, Edward, Prince of Wales."

"Knowledge of the passage between times is the most important state secret in both our realms. Besides yourself all who know of it are returning with me except Ward. You may rest assured the secret will remain intact on my side of time if I have to cut out tongues and cut off hands."

"Or heads, which is what you intend to do."

Edward did not like his mind being read so easily. He wouldn't want this man as a sworn enemy.

"The secret will remain safe on my side. It won't on yours."

"Ward has plenty of incentive to keep his mouth shut."

"Such would never slip while in the embrace of lovely Deborah?"

The Cardinal waved his hand. "He knows disclosure will cost him Deborah, the earldom, all. I have made that clear."

"All right. So he will not idly spill it. But what if five years from now he gets cancer? What then? His only hope lies in the other 21st Century. He will run to the passage, enter the fifteenth century, then try to assassinate me and Richard. If he can make it back to the passage, he returns to his own time—and so do you."

Edward detected a shudder under the Cardinal's blanket. He continued.

"Your Eminence, they say every man will eventually develop prostrate cancer. I do not have percentages handy on other cancers or heart disease or diabetes or kidney failure. But there is a very reasonable probability Ward will contact a malady your world cannot cure."

"Perhaps."

"Have you also considered that he will merely tire of this world? I imagine now he thrills to live as an earl with the astonishingly attractive Deborah Lyttleton at his side. But I wager it will all pale. I myself have tasted the stimulation of the alternative world, and comparatively I find this one quite boring. No offense."

"Roger Ward is a failure in the alternative world."

"He would take knowledge with him that can end that failure."

"He rescued me from the worst fate a man can suffer."

"Quite unwittingly."

"Nonetheless..."

"I say again, and without insolence, that Your Eminence owes him nothing. He is a supreme danger to both of us. I beg you not to ignore that."

The Cardinal drew the blanket tight about him. Edward too was chilled from the wind and spray, but he would not show it. He would never show weakness again.

"What do you propose? Not that I will act on it."

"Find some reason to have Caster—the King—send Ward back with us. In some official capacity. You can easily manipulate the man."

"The King is not as malleable as you would think."

"His fate depends on this as much as ours."

"He is not as stupid as you think either. He will suspect foul play."

"Ward is not his blood kin. Ward is just a stranger appearing out of nowhere who has status only because you say he has status. The King will do what you recommend."

"Perhaps. If I even bring it to him."

"That will be your decision, of course."

"Of course? Aren't you going to threaten me again with paralysis?"

"I believe you will make the right decision. But it will be your decision and I will abide by it. I grant that Ward betraying us is a possibility, not an absolute certainty. I however sleep less and less soundly worrying about that possibility. Revenge matters very little in my considerations. As gratitude should in yours."

Jeffery surprised him with a smile. "I can promise nothing. But I do believe you have the makings of a king."

A lump formed in Edward's throat. To receive such praise from such an able man, one who had risen from nothing to de facto rule this great land, warmed him amidst the biting cold. He believed he would be a good king, but he had no experience. That this professional endorsed him meant much.

Edward heard his name called. Richard, still fighting with rigging, jerked his head to starboard. Edward turned to see a great ship plowing past a quarter mile away, the huge white sails on its quadruple masts bulging with wind. Its copper sheathed hull bristled with cannon. On deck men in blue and gold uniform stood stiffly looking right at them.

Edward froze in terror as orange flame leapt from the upper row of cannons. Then the roar of the guns struck without harm and Edward realized the ship was just saluting King Thomas. Edward hoped no one had noticed his fear.

Caster waved wildly back. Try as he might Edward could not summon respect for the man. Thomas Caster utterly lacked the dignity of a king. It was hard to believe the man was a direct descendant. Five hundred years of the line mating with lessors had certainly diluted out the all the Plantagenet grace and grandeur.

"What do you expect from a tour guide?" Edward mumbled.

Old he might be, but Jeffress heard. The Cardinal smiled smugly. "And what were you, sir, without benefit of your birth?"

Edward didn't flare. He had won his argument, he knew it. He could afford to show humility. "Touché, Your Eminence."

Caster was coming toward them, stepping nimbly across the rolling deck. The florid face beamed exuberance. "The finest ship in the fleet," he bellowed.

"China bound, Your Majesty?" The Cardinal made room in the well for Caster's big frame. Edward gave thanks that Dickon and Colonel Wells were joining them. Attendants brought hot tea and hard rolls and jam.

Caster joyfully swept out his arm. "Yes, by St. George. She and the horde behind her." Caster gestured at the score and more ships further up the Thames. "The last heathen either converts or dies."

The Cardinal put his hands in the prayer position and bowed his head. "God's will be done."

Caster and the grim faced Colonel seconded with amens. Colonel Wells was intently watching the approaching ships. Edward had heard that the highly decorated soldier bitterly protested assignment of his regiment to home duty. He had won all his medals in China and he thirsted for more.

His regiment, the Northumberland Sabers, was regarded as one of the elite units in the Army of Conversion and the finest cavalry formation ever produced by the Unified Kingdom. During the Yellow River campaign, the regiment garnered such a reputation for lethal efficiency that even the best Chinese troops fled or surrendered at its approach.

The regiment's officers and men alike furiously resented the last minute cancellation of their redeployment to China. All ranks wanted in on what would likely be the final campaign in China. Indeed, the final campaign in the two century long crusade to convert the world. That they would miss the triumphal conclusion, which their regiment had done so much to secure, was unbearable.

Fortunately for Edward the men of this storied unit did what their officers told them. And the officers in turn obeyed their storied colonel. So the Cardinal needed persuade only one man that the humiliating orders, that the Sabers baby-sit two unknown nobles, was something quite other. Something upon which the very existence of the kingdom depended. Something which could catapult him—and his repulsive son—into the peerage.

Oh, but how the man—also known as the Terror of China—longed to be on one of those ships. That was good. Edward wanted a blood-thirsty commander beside him when he invaded his own realm. Colonel Wells would get both the campaign and glory he desired when Henry Tudor came out to fight.

The battleship, or man o'war, or whatever they called their capital ships, pulled past them. Caster's gaze lingered on the vessel, and Edward realized that this King of England too wished he were China bound. Perhaps more than a trace of Plantagenet blood did flow in the former tour guide. With his size and vigor Caster would at any rate have made a good knight.

An attendant yelled; the sailboat was running straight toward a spit of land protruding from the riverbank. Caster bounded up shouting orders. Dickon and the colonel rushed back to their positions and shortly the boat turned.

As the sailboat headed again into the broad gray of the lower Thames, Edward eyed the muddy spit that jutted a hundred yards out into the river. He wondered if the spit existed in his own time. The tides would easily build or destroy such protrusions.

But likely one would exist in the vicinity. Here a head on a long pole would greet all ships entering or departing the kingdom.

Yes, he had told the Cardinal that revenge played a minor role in his desire to eliminate Ward. Actually revenge was a two inch thick icing on the cake of practicality.

Ward, of them all, knew better. And still he came to snatch him and Dickon. To deliver them to the Tudor, who then would have no choice but to kill, or worse, hide his brothers-in-law in a remote dungeon or domain.

The head of Roger Ward would reside atop that pole. The birds would pick it clean, and everyone who saw the sun bleached, rain washed skull would know from where derived the "dread" in "Our dread sovereign".

Chapter 14

**H** is morning ride completed, Roger Ward swung down from his mount. A groom immediately took the reins and led the lathered sorrel toward the stables. Simultaneously a half dozen servants scurried toward Ward from the west entrance of Penshurst Place. He was pleased to see them hurry, and even more pleased because he knew affection rather than fear spurred them.

He wanted to break into song. What a glorious day! After a week of chill rain, sunlight and warmth had returned to the world. The rain had done its work well, too, intensifying the green of the vast open grounds before him. Overhead puffy cumulus clouds dotted a baby blue sky.

The servants reached him, crying my lord, my lord, what can we do for our good lord. They should greet him with enthusiasm. He had doubled the pay of his thirty-six servants, given them another day off besides Sunday, taken time to learn about them and their families.

Ward was determined to be a good aristocrat. It had angered him to learn in graduate school that so many English servants, even into the nineteenth century, had endured privation. His people would eat well, dress well, live well, and be retired on pension at a reasonable age.

He again effused about the wonderful weather, and the men about him agreed in chorus. They fell into step beside him—he insisted they not trail. He bantered happily. Taking after the king he had come to like, Ward slapped their backs.

Ward did not make for the west entrance, instead he started the group on a circumnavigation of Penshurst Place. A summer ago, a lifetime ago, he had done the same. Then he was just a nobody, on temporary escape from his two-bit role in life. Pretending then as he circled the crenellated complex of sandstone buildings that he was a baron and owner of this stupendous residence.

Why had he come to Penshurst so many summers? A couple of times should have been enough, especially with dozens of other sites for a medieval historian to visit in England. Had he sensed he belonged here? That the worthwhile part of his life would unfold on these magnificent grounds? In an alternative world, one that he now considered less the alternative and more his natural abode?

At any rate, he was the owner now. And quite the antithesis of a nobody.

People acclaimed him everywhere he went. This past Sunday at church the priest had praised Ward in the sermon, and offered a special prayer of thanks for the coming of the Restorer. In the nearby towns people both high and low removed their hats and bowed. They even addressed him as "Your Grace", technically reserved for dukes.

Perhaps soon it would not be a technicality. Two days earlier a herald had delivered a summons from the King for Ward to present himself at Greenwich next week. An accompanying note from Jeffress said the King planned to grant him an additional honor. "A station which you can occupy with great pride," the Cardinal promised.

Whether the King made him a duke or not, all this acclaim felt good after the years of little recognition and respect. Now people happily bestowed goodwill, and a great running sore in him had begun to heal. It felt so very good.

In his rapture Ward strode hard and the young men had to hustle to keep pace. He and they traded jokes, and their eyes said can you believe he's a regular fellow, no snotty earl, what fine fortune for us. Well lads, serve me faithfully and your good luck is just beginning.

Oh glorious day!

"My lord, please forgive me." Anthony, tallest of the servants, taller even than King Tom, tapped a hand against his forehead. "I almost forgot. Jonathan asked me to ask if we are to serve spirits for supper."

"Of course, of course." While not up to "true"21st Century standards, this England did produce a passable rye whiskey.

"Lord, please remember that Sir George refuses even ale."

"So? No one will force any down his gullet."

"My lord, please remember that he and his daughter are the guests of honor. It is a delicate matter. He could be offended if rye and rum are offered."

Ward laughed off his exasperation. So polite of his servants with their "please remember" to remind him of his ignorance of social etiquette here. They would be saying "please remember" for a time to come.

"Tell Jonathan we won't even serve wine." Next to the King and the Cardinal, George Lyttleton was the last person whose nose he wanted out of joint.

"Yes, my lord." Anthony sprinted off.

Ward hadn't meant Jonathan needed to know right now. But everyone here obeyed instantly; he could hardly quarrel with that.

"My lord, if we may inquire, have you set a day for the wedding?"

Ward wasn't sure it was proper they should inquire. Perhaps familiarity was breeding contempt. But—

"At supper I will announce the date. Keep this to yourselves until then." He spoke sternly and the men nodded gravely. "The 20th of December."

The servants heartily congratulated him and Ward's euphoria returned.

Since that magical day at Richmond Palace he had fielded at least thirty marriage proposals. As the Cardinal warned him, the newly minted Earl of Kent was the most eligible bachelor in the kingdom. Earls, viscounts, barons journeyed to Penshurst Place with dowry offers and portraits of daughters.

Even a widowed duchess had sent a representative—sans portrait—to tempt Ward with her forty-two estates. Combined with his own holdings, such a marriage would have made him the largest lay landowner in England after the Crown. The representative swore the middle-aged duchess could still bear children and hinted her sexual ardor remained high.

Either of two other marriages would have netted him twenty plus estates along with far younger and actually attractive mates. Another father brought sixteen estates and choice London property to the table. Another promised New World plantations. And another anted up ten estates and a portrait that revealed his daughter undressed. She was quite lovely.

Sir George Lyttleton owned three estates. Not bad for a mere knight, but some would consider such a dowry an insult if offered to an earl. Yet Sir George offered no land, only a couple of thoroughbred horses. An extreme insult, some might say.

Ward didn't want the horses. Only the woman. If anything rated extreme it was the beauty of the eighteen year old daughter. Her beauty struck like a right cross to the jaw. Ward observed mouths dropping, conversations ceasing, breathing suspended when she walked into a room.

He had never seen such an awesome woman except on the silver screen. Encountering the likes in the flesh squared the impact. A man simply could not think straight in the vicinity of such stunning good looks. Deborah Lyttleton absolutely mesmerized.

Ward and Sir George had reached quick agreement. Ward in fact granted the knight life interest in two of his own estates. He would have thrown in more if necessary. Faust-like, he would have pledged his soul to Satan to gain Deborah's hand.

Yet however much he was attracted to her, he must always—always—remember that this was not a love match. Or if love did exist, he loved her beauty and body, she loved his wealth and position. Essentially, this marriage equated to a business transaction. She became a countess, he got the trophy wife of the realm.

He did hope they would grow fond of each other. Over the past three weeks they had gotten along swimmingly, but each had great incentive to show only their best side. How much of their camaraderie would stand the test of time? It certainly had not in his two other major relationships.

Promise did exist. She had a good mind, a quick wit, and enormous charm. And all that physical wonder. That was her side of the coin. He hoped she saw him bringing more to the union than his earldom.

He didn't want to brag, but he was highly intelligent even if not always using that intelligence wisely. He was in excellent health. He possessed what might be called rugged good looks. When required he could converse engagingly. And, although rusty, he could more than adequately make love—as Deborah would find out twelve weeks hence.

And she was intrigued with him. She swallowed whole the fabrication that he had heroically saved the Royal Family. His accent told he was not of England, and she readily accepted the extension to his cover story that he owned a large tobacco plantation in the North American province of Anneland—named for the first wife of Edward V.

She saw him as a courageous adventurer, a worldly wise man worthy of the honors King Tom had awarded. For Ward the trick would be to keep it up. So far he had played the role to the hilt, and goddammed if it didn't feel more natural every day.

Ward grinned widely as he walked even faster. The lads about him were starting to flag, but there was no slowing him now as they skirted the long yew hedge that enclosed the iridescent flower gardens along the eastern side of Penshurst Place. For the first time since childhood he felt entirely content. No longing, no anxiety, no regrets. He had arrived as few on this planet ever did.

In three months the elite of England would witness confirmation of that arrival. In a joyous ceremony at Saint Paul's in London, with the King in attendance and the Princes thankfully not, he and Deborah would exchange wedding vows. The Cardinal had graciously agreed to perform the ceremony.

In a year another arrival would occur, perhaps the most momentous of all. His dynasty would begin. He hadn't discussed it with Deborah, but he wanted four surviving children. Though the medical abilities of these times exceeded those of the Middle Ages, a quarter of children still didn't make it past ten. Four survivors would require at least six pregnancies.

He doubted Deborah would mind. She was young and strong, and after delivery nursemaids and nannies would minimize her postnatal burden. More importantly, she would understand how four children would empower the Ward-Lyttleton union. Their sons and daughters would allow them to develop a network of alliances with the great families of the kingdom.

With his brains and her looks they would produce offspring of the highest quality. Dare say their issue would rival that of the old Plantagenet line. The peers of the land would furiously bargain for betrothal. By the time his grandchildren reached maturity, the House of Ward-Lyttleton could control a couple hundred estates. His heirs would rank only behind the Crown and Church in influence.

As Ward led his servants past the north front of Penshurst, his grin broadened. In his mind he could hear an orchestra playing the 1812 Overture. Da, da, rump, rump, trumph. Of course the triumphant score didn't exist in this world...but it shortly would.

He would bring much more to this time than superior children. He had the wealth to fund a real orchestra and teach them real music. The ancestors of Bach and Beethoven may have perished in the Counter Reformation but the music of those towering composers could live again.

And as an earl he had the right to commission illuminated manuscripts. He had always read with passion and could still remember almost word for word long passages from the classics. Works from Shakespeare, Milton, Flaubert, Dickens, etc. would grace his library and those of his growing circle of friends.

He would also like to found a college. Situate it right next to Penshurst. When he went to Greenwich he would discuss the matter with the Cardinal. Only Church run schooling existed in this land, but the Cardinal might agree that the time had arrived for secular education to be available. At least for the peerage and gentry.

Without a doubt he would teach at the college. He was surprised how much he missed his classes. He especially missed students' faces lighting up as his lectures brought history alive and the lively discussions that often followed after class over pizza and beer.

Yes, an orchestra, a library, perhaps a college, perhaps more. This world had enriched him and he would enrich it.

In the glorious sunshine on the glorious grounds Ward had increased his pace to a near jog. One by one the servants had to drop out. At the end, as he returned to the emerald expanse before the western front, only William remained. Ward patted William's back heartily, and told him to take the rest of the day off. The heavily breathing lad, perhaps half his age, wheezed out his thanks.

Then Ward heard beat of horse hooves, and he turned to see the Royal Postman on his mount approaching at a canter. Despite his exhaustion, William hurried out to receive the daily mail. As the Postman handed the young man a thick packet of letters, a cloud crossing the sun cast them into shadow.

**W** ard took the mail into the Sunderland room. At the entrance he paused to once more savor the long chamber with the lofty ceiling that he had converted into an office. He had always wanted a huge office worthy of a potentate. Not that he was a potentate, but here he certainly had enough elbow room to attend to the paperwork of an earl.

Fourteen months ago in the real world he had sat in the Sunderland room for lunch. Then it was a tourist trap restaurant. Within the confines he and the rest of a busload of sightseers consumed a fair to middling meal at excessive price. Now he had great midday meals here and damn the price.

His riding boots clicked on the flagstone floor as he walked the thirty yards to the broad table of teak that served as his desk. In his residences he had always used a big table to spread his correspondence, lesson plans, research materials. Right now the gleaming surface held little, but eventually he would fill it as he settled into the management of his many estates.

Ward said hi to the two suits of armor flanking the massive arched window behind the table. Then he sat facing the length of the chamber and untied the packet of mail.

"My lord, your coffee."

His head jerked up to behold the maiden Anne Hollingsworth walking swiftly toward him as she bore a silver platter. The platter held at chest height obscured the delightful swell of her bosom, but he was free to observe the remainder of her classic hourglass figure.

She was smiling brightly as she brought forward coffee and pastries. She was cute rather than pretty, brown- haired and brown-eyed, and the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. But Anne aroused him, no way around it.

The blue serge of her overshirt strained over her bosom as she bent to place the silver tray beside him. Ward should thank the strange convention of this England where the gentry wore baggy duds and the servant class snug apparel. Otherwise he could not three or four times a day feast upon the fine curvature of this lass. He was already looking forward to the twitch of her delectable behind when she departed the room.

"How was your ride, my lord?"

"Excellent." He almost asked if she would like to join him sometime. "It really gets the blood moving."

She smiled coyly, as if thinking of other ways to get blood moving.

Then she picked up a pastry twirl and held it before his mouth. "Sarah baked these fresh. They have apricot filling."

Ward took the warm pastry into his own hand. He bet she would have gladly fed him if he had asked.

He bit and chewed. "Excellent. Give Sarah my compliments."

"We have drawn your bath, my lord. I have added jasmine and lemon scents—if that meets your approval."

"Oh, yes." For a breath stopping moment he imagined shapely Anne in the tub with him, their eager hands soaping each other. Were the same longings running through her sweet head?

He quickly changed the subject to preparations for supper. She assured him all was going well. As she spoke, that bright smile remained on her lips. Reluctantly he dismissed her.

As she exited the chamber he berated himself. Was he crazier than hell? If he let things continue, he would bed her for sure. He could certainly not count on Anne to put up resistance.

However saucy and shapely this lass might be, would he really chance blowing his marriage to Deborah? He didn't know Deborah that well yet, but he bet the pride of such a beauty would not stand for two-timing. She would dump his ass fast. And there were many in the peerage that would happily marry her, daughter of a lowly knight or not.

Ward knew what his problem was. He hadn't gotten laid for six months. He was so horny even the sheep in the meadows were starting to look attractive. Once wedding night came, his surfeit of desire would find glorious release. He certainly could hold out till then.

No, he wasn't going to bang Anne Hollingsworth. Or any of the female help. In all the years he had taught, he never once slept with a student. He'd had plenty of opportunity but that line he had never crossed. He wouldn't do it here, either.

He was responsible for his servants, especially impressionable youngsters like Anne. He would do the right thing by her. Which at the very least meant her not bearing the "lord's natural child". He would be on the lookout for a suitable husband. When the right match was found—he as her earl had the final say so—he would provide a generous dowry.

Ward ate a second pastry, sipped some of the steaming coffee, then applied his aluminum letter opener—worth more than gold in this England—to the mail. The first two letters were fan mail, the third an application for the open position of Receiver General for his estates, the fourth an invitation to a boar hunt in Surrey, and the fifth a request for a donation for the new cathedral going up in Bristol.

As he set to slit the sixth letter his hand froze. The envelope bore a seal on the backside, a ragged circle of wax that was half green and half white—the livery colors of Tudor. Below the seal neat printing proclaimed the sender as none other than the Lady Margaret Beaufort.

He dropped the square envelope back on the table. Involuntarily he glanced about the big room as if he were under observation. Of course, no one watched.

What the hell was that bitch writing him for? And how had she even gotten a letter to him? She was supposedly under house arrest, under security the Cardinal said was unprecedented. Anyone smuggling out a letter on her behalf would have to be mad. The Crown would likely consider the act treason, and even in this benign land treason still carried a death sentence.

Ward tried to calm himself. The letter had arrived by regular post. No one in the night had shoved it under his bedroom door. From what the Cardinal said Lady Margaret was watched by several people at all times. This correspondence got out only because those guarding her had read the letter, sealed it under their hand, and sent it along to Ward. The letter could therefore contain nothing conspiratorial.

Why did she then write? Surely she wasn't congratulating him on gaining the earldom of Kent. Not this woman who on the other side of the passage had so badly wanted to interrogate and then probably kill him.

Ward took a deep breath. He inserted the letter opener and cut the envelope open. He pulled out two sheets of folded paper. And forced himself to read.

"My most honorable and noble lord:"

Ward did emit a chuckle at the salutation. Neither honorable nor noble nor lord did that vinegar imbibing matron consider him.

"You may have learned of my recent agreement whereby I will aid Edward Plantagenet in his reclamation of the throne of England. I initially entered this agreement under duress. Yet as I contemplate, I see the benefits to humanity vastly outweigh any personal cost. I know you agree."

Ward snorted. From what Jeffress said this agreement guaranteed extinction of the Tudor line, the line that had outshone even Plantagenet. Ward could hardly believe that Margaret Beaufort would endorse, much less participate in, the destruction of her own dynasty. She had to have something up her sleeve.

"I at last fully comprehend the enormity of the crime that my forebears committed in 1399 when they deposed Richard II. The usurpation of the throne by Lancaster broke the order of succession ordained by God. The intended path of the world was rent asunder and placed at the mercy of the Antichrist.

"The agents of God managed to restore the natural order sixty years later, but I returned control to the Antichrist in 1483. At the time I deluded myself I worked God's will. I now see my terrible error. I am on my knees daily thanking you for correcting that error."

Ward was beginning to suspect that she really wrote this letter for the eyes of the Cardinal and the Princes. Maybe she felt required to get on record a pro forma statement of her devotion to their cause.

"It is all so obvious now. The world into which I brought the Princes, the same world in which you were born, is the aberration. It was not supposed to happen, either by the hand of God or by chance. You as a historian must know the long odds of any civilization giving rise to the scientific, social, industrial and political revolutions witnessed in the West over the past five hundred years.

"I must conclude that civilization was a fluke. If the dice of history were rolled a hundred times, a thousand times, would such a malignancy arise again? Thankfully, no. You as historian know the story of every other civilization over the past five thousand years. An initial rise, then the stability that some misconstrue as stagnation. Only the Antichrist inspired West has defied this rule that God ordained."

Ward swallowed hard. He was beginning to get her drift. Damn her to hell.

But he read on.

"Some praise the civilization of the West as dynamic, inventive, heroic. But you and I know better. Greed, lust, depravity, turmoil are that world's true face, not its deceptive mask of triumph. It is an unparalleled evil that you, through your wise and brave actions, have destroyed."

In the pit of his stomach a pain grew. But he read on.

"In the darkest hours of a war that threatened to enslave mankind, a man for all seasons said: 'If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. But if we fail, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age'. His noble people overcame Nazism, and I heartily believed that with the fall of communism fifty years later the world had reached the uplands.

"I now realize that mankind already dwells in those sunlit uplands. Though Winston Churchill did not know of its existence, he was referring to this world. Would that he could witness its Holy Glory!

"The return of the Princes to their natural time is therefore justified and essential. My eyes are now wide open. The cataracts of delusion have fallen away and now I can see that you, the Restorer, have indeed saved us all. Long may you live, you who have decided the fate of the world.

"Your humble admirer, Margaret Beaufort."

Ward dropped the letter on the tabletop. He put his head in his hands and moaned. The first time he had seen this baleful woman she terrified him, and even though she was under house arrest she still terrified him. This letter of brutal double-entendre was of course no less than a plea for him to stop the Princes from reaching the passage.

The evil, conniving bitch. She must be insane. Or frantically desperate.

Did she really think she could get any help from him to put Tudor back in the saddle? From he who had nothing in that other world and everything in this one? The reference to Churchill's vision of a coming golden age—pretty dubious now in light of the onslaught of Islamic fundamentalism—she thought that would get him to abandon treasures like Penshurst Place and Deborah Lyttleton?

She was certainly making a big mistake if she believed her appeals to setting right the course of history would sway him. This world had it all over the other, his exalted position aside. Here he had encountered a content and humane citizenry, quite free of the "greed, lust, depravity, turmoil" that marred the other world. He could also add it appeared free of the loneliness and anxiety that mocked the other's vastly superior prosperity.

He revered Western Civilization; unlike so many in academia he willingly acknowledged its supremacy. The magnificent achievements of the Dead White European Males—the DWEMs others so loved to deride—had uplifted all humanity. Yes, Western Civilization was the stunning exception to the dreary tale of oppression and stagnation marking almost all other cultures in all other times.

But—a big but—in the last century, the terrible Twentieth, that triumphant civilization had lost its way. The mass slaughter in two world wars and the threat of nuclear annihilation that followed had broken the heart and the will of its inhabitants—at least eastward of the English Channel

This new world was a second chance. Progress here was much slower, but that also gave mankind a chance to catch its breath. A leisurely, relaxed walk was much better than the hysterical sprint of the world he had left behind. And except for the war in China, mankind here was at peace. There were no rogue states or cults ready to unleash nuclear, biological or chemical terror. This world had achieved a serenity and an order which in the other might never arrive.

Astonishingly the Catholic Church had played a major role in gaining this state of affairs. Back home he was no fan of the Church, but in this world he must laud them. They had done themselves proud in the two centuries since the great pope Arnold I—fittingly an Englishman—had launched the Conversion.

The Armies of Conversion had spilled blood, yes, but only on the battlefield. After victory only mercy flowed. An enlightened priesthood eased the transition of the conquered into the new faith and even those who refused to submit to Christ were treated well. The priesthood, backed by the Armies, prevented exploitation or tyranny from taking root in any converted land.

Yes, Lady Margaret, contrast that with the daily diet of atrocity, corruption and degradation greeting any consumer of the news in the other world. And she expected him to rush to the lodgings of the Princes in London and slit their throats so that other world might return.

She was bonkers.

God, he looked forward to her and the Princes disappearing through the passage. That day Ward would throw a celebration that would be remembered in the shire of Kent long into this new millennium.

Should he inform the Cardinal about her none too subtle plea? The Cardinal might already know, if copies of her correspondence were forwarded to him. If Ward didn't divulge her machinations, Jeffress might suspect him of collusion.

He best show the letter to Jeffress. He would take it when he left for Greenwich Thursday. That should keep him in the clear. What happened to Lady Margaret afterward, that was her problem. Probably the axe was the best solution.

Ward had to admit he would rest a lot easier if she were dead. Probably everyone would, including the Cardinal and the Princes. She was just too dangerous a person to give any running room.

The rest of these letters could wait. That had gotten to be a bother, tending to all the correspondence. It seemed every literate person in the kingdom was writing him, mixing fervent praise with requests for help in this or that matter. He was going to have to hire a secretary. Or, more likely as the Cardinal recommended, start putting together his own council. All the great magnates had one.

Ward rose. He would take his bath now, along with a tall glass of rum. Maybe two glasses since he wouldn't be drinking tonight.

The pain in his gut started to fade. What had he been worried about? Margaret Beaufort was the one in the tight spot, not him.

Chapter 15

**M** argaret listened to the priest drone through another prayer. It was strange to hear Mass celebrated in English instead of Latin. That she did not mind. She would praise little in this world, but she must admit the Church here had made some enlightened reforms: performing services in the vernacular tongue, tolerating birth control, and allowing priests to marry. Would that the Vatican of the true world displayed such good sense.

But of course that Vatican, however rigid, would have never condoned the abominations that this Church had inflicted upon the world.

Margaret noted that most of the congregation raptly followed every numbing word of Father Jacob. Their eyes fixed reverently on the stoop-shouldered priest whom the Lord had forgotten to give a neck. It was testament to the passion of their faith that they could devote such attention to this man so devoid of passion.

Her own eyes wandered about the interior of the church. It was just a parish church, able to hold no more than two hundred souls, but charming nonetheless. The morning sunlight emblazoned the trio of stained glass windows above the chancel, and cast a diffuse glow the length of the nave. On both sides of the nave masterfully carved alabaster statues of saints gazed down benevolently. The blond oak of the pews exuded warmth and comfort

An amplification of Father Jacob's voice pulled her attention back to the service. The congregation rose and launched into a hymn. It was a typical hymn, rendered in the rise, rise, rise and fall rhythm that so grated on her nerves. The lyrics alternately praised the Conversion and damned the heretics. Most of the hymns sung the past four Sundays in this backwater church had damned heretics.

As had Father Jacob's sermons. She had to assume it was the same way throughout the kingdom, and likely all Christendom. This age seemed far more concerned about heretics rather than heathens. Maybe because there were not that many heathens left.

And who might be the heretics? She was sure that the majority of individuals so branded were not contesting Church doctrine. They instead had to be political dissenters.

It was no coincidence that other hymns praised God's "caretakers". Namely, the King, his Council, the barons and the gentry. Love, honor, and obey them as you would God. Anyone not accepting that perversion of the faith courted the wrath of the Church as well as the Crown. A most effective incentive for the commons to accept the status quo. And powerful justification to deal summarily with those who did not.

The congregation sang with fervor. The red clad soldiers on either side of Margaret also bellowed the sickening lyrics with gusto. When the distressing hymn ended both soldiers and civilians smiled broadly. Margaret kept her lips in a straight line.

It was maddening, how much the populace smiled. When they should be raging. They were intellectually deprived as a citizenry could be, yet they had not the faintest inkling of the deprivation. They appeared quite content with their stunted, thwarted lives.

Father Jacob began his sermon. Margaret shut out his words completely. She was sure God would not mind; He too would ignore this boring, lackluster man. Certainly this morning the Lord would prefer to commiserate with Margaret.

The Lord should commiserate. Time was running about. Only three or four weeks remained before Princes started for Wales. The Lord was cutting matters close. He should have already intervened.

She was doing her part, what little she could. She had to hope her letter lit a fire under Roger Ward. With each day that passed he must see more clearly the disaster he had caused. Even if Ward did specialize in medieval studies, surely he was well versed in the Enlightenment and the Glorious Revolutions of both England and America. He knew what would be irrevocably lost if this benighted world stood.

Ward must steel himself and overcome the devil. Lucifer—in the form of Cardinal Jeffress—had tempted Ward with wealth and title, tempted with the fairest maid and the fairest manor in the land. But Ward had to sense the evil upon which all his gain rested. In the depths of his soul he must know he where his duty lay.

Of course, knowledge of one's duty did not always lead to its discharge. Many good men had shied away from combating evil. And was Roger Ward a good man? She knew him not at all, really. Still, he was an American and Americans possessed the same combination of conscience and courage that had so ennobled her own countrymen.

Her other, more forlorn hope for salvation rested in Richard. His character she did know and she would vouch for him to man and saint alike. But she could not realistically expect him to strike down Edward, even if Richard came to abhor this world. Loyalty to his brother ran too strong.

Moreover Richard knew he would not have to live in this world. He would return to his original time; in effect he would be going home. She knew he missed his sisters, and life as a royal duke awaited. Richard might even delude himself that once in power he and Edward could change the course of history.

She obviously needed God's help. The past month she had prayed very hard, harder than when her son marched toward Bosworth Market. God must force Ward or Richard to act. She could not believe He could in any way prefer the world of Donald Jeffress.

Again she begged for God's help. She almost passed out from the effort. But she vowed not to quit. Until they closed the coffin lid on her, she would not quit praying and fighting for the world that without her son, grandson, and great granddaughter would have never come into existence.

In the church people were rising. The sermon was over. The congregation sang a few more hymns, offered a few more prayers, then the service was done. After the departure of the priest and acolytes up the aisle to the entrance, the congregation filed out.

Margaret, the state prisoner, left the church last. Surrounded by the towering soldiers of her guard, she walked slowly down the aisle. She was in no hurry to get back to the manor house. Sunday was the only day they let her out, and back at the manor only the twin torments of boredom and foreboding awaited.

As she neared the entrance, she heard Father Jacob shout. "Kate Nevin! By the Lord's name halt!"

Two soldiers broke from her guard and hurried outside. A few moments later Margaret stepped into the sunshine. The congregation had formed a wide circle around the two soldiers who held the arms of a squirming young woman. Tears steamed down her panic stricken face. Margaret saw she was one of the manor servant girls.

What on earth? Margaret stepped toward the circle but the guards blocked her. Again she fumed at another humiliating restraint on her freedom. How dearly she would have loved to drive an elbow into ribs.

Father Jacob, passion now animating him, strode to the woman. His hand thrust at her head, toward the squat hat decked with yellow and pink flowers. The hat was pulled so low that it covered her eyebrows. Which was strange on such a mild day. She desperately jerked her head away and begged hysterically to be left alone.

What had the lass done? Did the hat hide some precious icon stolen from the church? If so, the girl was right to howl. They didn't hang thieves here, but the punishment was bad enough—ten years of indenture to a sugar plantation in the Caribbean.

The woman frantically bobbed her head to escape Father Jacob's grasp, but with glee he snared the hat. Margaret expected some silver or gold object to drop out. Nothing did. Yet the congregation gasped as one.

"The mark lies upon you," cried the priest. "Shame upon you, Kate, great and damnable shame." The young woman now hung limply in the soldiers' arms and she wept with utter despair.

"What has she done?" Margaret asked one of her guards.

Revulsion played on the face of the young man beside her. "It is the mark. The Mark of Babylon. Don't you see it, on her forehead?"

The woman's face lifted a little and Margaret saw a burgundy smear above one eyebrow. Her jaw clenched. Were these people insane, condemning that poor girl for having a birthmark? This age was even more twisted than she thought.

"Let us pray for her," bellowed Father Jacob. Instantly the congregation dropped to their knees on grass before the church. One of her guards hissed for Margaret to also kneel. Defiantly she didn't.

The priest beseeched God to forgive the woman—and also the congregation, who had failed in their vigilance and allowed this dastardly sin to occur. He asked forgiveness for himself for not inspiring Kate to hold fast her virtue.

"May God have mercy on you Katherine, daughter of William. Our prayers go with you, as does our pity. May your death come blessedly quick within the confines of Clarendon Park."

A chorus of amens arose.

Then the two soldiers hauled the defeated woman away.

Despite her outrage Margaret managed to ask calmly. "How will they execute her?" She hoped the Mark of Babylon didn't require burning.

The soldier looked bewildered, then shook his head. "She will not be that lucky."

"You know I am new here. Tell me, how will she die?"

"Surely you have the Mark in your own land."

"We have them. But no one dies."

"That can't be. The Mark kills all over the world. The Lord is striking at those who stray from marriage. Or stray before marriage, like that woman."

Margaret's mouth dropped as a slow realization took hold, one she desperately wanted to deny.

"When—when did the Mark begin to appear?"

"Twenty years ago."

"It's all over the world, you say?"

The soldier shuddered and nodded. "Much worse than here. When I was in the Malay four years ago a quarter of the people were marked." He grimaced. "Only recently converted, you know. Their morals are still the old way and the Mark is everywhere."

The realization came full force now and Margaret had could barely stay on her feet. Kate Nevin did not carry a birthmark, but instead the death sentence of Kaposi's sarcoma. This world had diverged greatly from the other, but not enough to escape the pandemic of Autoimmune Deficiency Syndrome.

Then a thrill of hope ran through her. She asked the soldier about Clarendon Park.

**R** ichard had been expecting a hellhole, but everywhere inside the walls of the extensive hospice sweet fragrances and scrupulous cleanliness greeted them. Patients were housed singly to large, well lit rooms. A multitude of comforting nurses and orderlies attended to their every need.

"Is it not as I said?" asked the Cardinal. "Though they have greatly sinned, we treat them as Christ would want. Do we not?"

The anger that had burned in Richard ever since receiving Lady Margaret's letter moderated. It still bothered him that the Cardinal had done everything in his power to conceal the existence of AIDS and the quarantining of its victims, but he did have to admit this England treated those infected with true compassion.

His brother nodded. "I am impressed," Ned said.

Richard bit his lip. In the other world Ned despised homosexuals and thought AIDS was what they deserved. The only reason Ned feigned sympathy now was because he knew how much Lady Margaret's revelation had upset Richard

"You still should have told us," said Richard. "It makes me wonder what else you hide." He remembered Margaret's reference to "this demented world".

"I never lied to you."

"We appreciate that," said Ned.

Again Richard bit his lip.

They strolled along a corridor lined with flowers in pots. Sunlight swept down from high south-facing windows. Gentle pastels colored the walls and ceilings.

The soothing décor, however, could do little to mute the grim reality within the rooms. Richard fought hard not to avert his eyes. The full spectrum of patients looked back at him, from the newly arrived who were still relatively healthy to those in their final days whose bodies had wasted to a skeletal state.

"So you believe this is God's punishment?" asked Richard

For the first time the Cardinal ceased accommodation. He turned to squarely face Richard. "My Duke of York, can it be construed otherwise? The Lord has long warned that fornication is a mortal sin. The alternate world has other views, but you are aware of the consequences of this view. Rampant illegitimacy and rampant divorce. The shattering of the family and the shattering of community."

The watery gray eyes in the thin, silver haired man glowed. "In the past the Lord sent venereal disease to deter this destructive behavior. In both worlds it did have limited success in curbing adultery. However, nothing stopped the bestial mating of man with man or woman with woman. These abominations of course the Lord cannot abide."

Until now Richard had considered Donald Jeffress a man of the cloth in name only, a highly practical commoner who chose the holy orders as the surest path to state power. Before today the man had displayed primarily a secular attitude in dealings with Richard and his brother.

"The affliction you know as AIDS and which we call the Mark of Babylon is the ultimate deterrent of the Lord. Fornicators and sodomites survive venereal disease, they do not survive the Mark. Furthermore the type of death demonstrates to all the depth of His anger. My Duke of York, I see distaste on your young face."

"You sure do. I can't believe you would condone—actually cheer on—someone dying like this." Richard inclined his head toward the emaciated wretch in the room opposite. "Those people aren't being punished. They are the victims of a virus that targets cells of the immune system. Evil is not involved here, except maybe in those who presume to judge them."

Ned tugged at his elbow. "We can discuss this latter."

"It is quite all right," said Jeffress. The glow was gone from the eyes. "I take no pleasure from the suffering and deaths at Clarendon Park. But God made the virus. And only those who mate outside holy matrimony can contract the disease. How can you fail to see the connection?"

Richard wanted to bolt. Ned was bloody right they would discuss this later.

"Do not condemn me—or my England—too hastily," said the Cardinal. "Observe the fine men and women attending the fallen, giving them the same love they would to a sick child of their own. Throughout the realm many thousands of other young adults are in similar manner helping the destitute and the stricken. I told you that every subject is required to give four years of such service to the Kingdom. Before you is living proof that they gladly perform it. I am so proud of them. Does not their devotion contrast well with the self absorption and indifference of youth in the alternative world?"

"There's plenty of compassion and nobility in our world," said Richard. "And I'm not fooled. This place is just a glorified concentration camp. The Church disgraces itself by allowing it."

The Cardinal stiffened and Richard realized he may have gone too far. After all, and unfortunately, they did depend on this man for everything.

"That's enough, Dickon!" His brother looked fit to kill. Ned had begged him to not press the Cardinal to bring them here.

"Forgive me, Your Eminence. My mouth often runs ahead of my brain."

"An unwise indulgence."

"I do favor the idea of several years of national service," said Richard. "Our time could use that."

The Cardinal directed his gaze to two teenagers clad in red and white helping a ghastly thin woman step inside from the gardens. "The spirit with which they serve at Clarendon will dwell within them the rest of their lives. If you stayed in my land longer you would witness that spirit at work in every city, town, and village. Helping and comforting is a way of life with us. No one lives or dies alone in this England. Here the words brother and sister are not empty ones."

For a moment Richard was ashamed of his outburst. But only for a moment. However the Cardinal sugarcoated it, this place symbolized intolerance and ignorance. The compassion displayed here masked underlying cruelty. As he said, he wasn't fooled.

"We appreciate your taking time from your pressing duties to escort us here," said Ned. "Don't we, Dickon?"

"Of course. We thank you."

The Cardinal waved his hand. "At the moment I have no greater duty than assuring your safety and comfort. Edward and Richard, if I may address you by your Christian names, you cannot expect to find all to your liking in this world. I am at home here because we strive hard in this England to do good. Your home waits on the other side of time—where I am sure you will also strive to do good. We seek the best for our people by different means, but we both seek. Remember that unites us in common cause."

Ned nodded. "Well said, Your Eminence."

The Cardinal pulled out a pocket watch. "We should depart within the hour."

"Whenever you are ready," said Ned. His lips pursed. "As usual Margaret Beaufort has twisted the truth. Everything I have seen here speaks well of this kingdom. You are dealing gallantly with a horrible disease—which is more than I can say for the world Dickon and I inhabited five weeks ago."

Richard said nothing. Did either his brother or the Cardinal think they were deceiving the other—or him? No gallantry or greater good was involved here. Ned needed the Cardinal to get his throne back and Jeffress needed Ned to remain Chancellor of the Exchequer and keeper of the Privy Seal. That was their common cause.

To be sure, Lady Margaret had her own cause. She probably didn't care anyone more about the AIDS plague than did Ned. To her that would only be a problem of the future, and irrelevant at any rate because it occurred in both futures. No, her sole cause remained the preservation of her dynasty.

He knew she had written only to give him pause about allowing this world to exist. In that she had succeeded. But he was having his doubts anyway the more he learned about both current and past events.

The two hundred year drive to achieve universal conversion could not be allowed to stand. It was just as bad as if communism had won. Maybe worse. What particularly appalled him were the 'Schools of Conversion', which the Church sent into a heathen country after the Army wiped out armed resistance. The Church knew anyone could publicly accept the Faith, but worship privately as he pleased. And pass his private beliefs on to his children.

The Schools solved the latter problem. In the conquered lands of Africa and Asia, all children under ten years old were permanently separated from their parents. They were raised to adulthood in walled compounds where they learned the Faith, the tongue of either Spain or England, and a trade. When released they were indistinguishable from a subject of either of those two countries—except of course, by skin color.

The adults and older children were not killed. As long as they did not rebel, they could live out their lives. One prelate Richard had spoken to offered as proof of the Church's mercy the decision not to castrate heathen males. They could continue to have children, but any they fathered went directly to the Schools. Only if a man tried to circumvent this arrangement did he lose his testicles.

"Dickon, are you coming?"

Ned and the Cardinal had moved up the corridor. Ned was trying to look unconcerned, but Richard knew him too well. His brother was in a state of agitation. Undoubtedly Ned sensed he might be denied his throne a second time. He sensed right.

Richard stepped after the thin cleric and the tall brother.

**E** dward strolled with his brother along the wide brick pathway that bordered the Thames by the Strand. Armed soldiers walked before and behind them, which drew curious stares from passersby. Invariably though the passersby smiled at him and Dickon. Edward did not smile back. He was sick of this mindlessly cheerful population.

But it was a beautiful day in London, another in the string of sunshine and balm. On the Thames this windless morning boats being rowed were out in abundance. He was also glad to see the reassuring flotilla of swans on the glinting waters.

"Those same swans are waiting for us—in our realm," he said.

Dickon didn't answer. His brother had avoided substantive conversation since leaving Clarendon Park yesterday. Edward was beginning to fear the worst, that his brother would refuse to return through the passage.

About fifty paces ahead a pier pushed into the river. Several old men sat on its end with fishing poles and a big flagon that probably held rum, a drink even more casually enjoyed by this populace than tea.

When they reached the pier Edward instructed the captain to keep his men off the pier and let no one else on. He led Dickon halfway out, then they faced each other. Edward had rarely seen his brother grimmer. Silently he cursed Margaret Beaufort, but that was a matter for later.

Edward forced a smile. "Don't you want to go home, Dickon?"

His brother sighed. "I didn't much sleep considering that very question."

"You look it."

Dickon forced a smile of his own. "Thanks."

"Speak your mind. Please."

"If this is the price..." Dickon swept his arm about him.

"I see a land far more content than the one we lived in a couple months ago."

"Lady Margaret was on the mark. 'This demented world'."

The elders at the pier's end had turned to look at them. Then they went back to their poles and the flagon. Beyond them an oar-stroked yacht glided gracefully upstream.

"She's always on the mark, isn't she?"

Dickon arched an eyebrow. "You agree?"

"Of course I agree. I haven't liked this place from the start."

"The problem is we created it."

"Are you sure your reluctance has nothing to do with the Chronicles having you die in 1515?" Edward asked.

"Doesn't help any."

"Don't you think that scares the hell out of me? I want you around when we're both gray and feeble. I'd never trade forty years of your life for a crown."

"If we don't go, none of this ever happens. Maybe it's better that way. I'd say the moment we both decide not to return, the switch-back happens immediately." Dickon put a hand on Edward's shoulder. "We could do it right now."

An icy chill broke over Edward. Then the panic subsided as he realized "both" meant both. Richard alone could not initiate the reversal of worlds.

"If you refuse to go and I do," said Edward, "you'll be stuck here. Is that what you want?"

"Can you in good conscience go and know this odious world is your legacy? However much we loathe the Tudors, their legacy is the rise of Britain and the United States and all the good for the world that came with them."

For a moment Edward wanted to march down to the old men and demand a swig from the flagon. A long swig. Then again, as he had so many times over past weeks, he reminded himself he was his father's son. In crisis the Sun in Splendor did not turn to alcohol. Edward IV brought his courage and imagination to the task and always emerged victorious.

"I say again, I will not return without you. You are the only person in the world I truly trust—and love—and I need you at my side to govern effectively. I am determined to govern at the highest level of effectiveness."

"Ned..."

"You will not die in 1515 in a hunting accident, because we will not waste our precious time hunting. You will not father the father of Robert the Burner because you will marry other than Katherine of Aragon. You and I have choices once we enter our realm. This world is only one of an infinity that may exist five hundred years in the future. We will make sure this one is not the result."

"Can we? My death, all of it, may be an Appointment at Samara. No avoidance however we bob and weave."

"The Chronicles say during my reign the printing press was banned in England. I can assure you I will subsidize its spread. And at crown expense every town will have a library. There is no mention of national service during my reign, but I will found it next summer. I know the Chronicles say I built roads throughout the kingdom; they don't say I will build them—and bridges and canals—with the paid labor of the dispossessed. The Tudors ignored the laborers thrown off estates because of sheep enclosures and I will not."

Dickon turned and looked out over the river. "I want to believe all that will happen."

"You doubt my word?" He'd never lied once to his brother.

"Of course not. But those are ambitious plans that will take a lot of money. You had to fight hard to get Parliament to approve just the road building."

Edward didn't say that with the Northumberland Sabers—who wouldn't be returning—he could cow Parliament to vote however he wanted.

"I also plan to introduce items like the spinning jenny and the power loom. The Crown will own textile factories which should provide so much money we'll drown in it."

Dickon looked a little astounded.

Edward smiled. "Don't you realize the incredible opportunity before us? We have seen two versions of the future. We can take the best from both and set the world on a better course than either."

"I hadn't thought along those lines."

"We will prevent much evil. Take the Counter Reformation, a nasty affair in either future. I will not break with Rome, but England will not ally with Spain to destroy the Protestants. My subjects may worship as they wish and I will declare the same right applies to all Europeans. Our armies that bear rifles will enforce this declaration. No Saint Bartholomew's Day Massacre, no Thirty Years War, no Hamburg in flames. I also plan to open England to any Jew who wants to settle here. That was a great stain on the Plantagenet line, their expulsion by Edward I."

Dickon whistled. "I am impressed."

"I will impress you more. The colonization of America will begin in my reign. Moreover I will not allow slavery. And our iron clad navy that bears artillery will prevent Spain or anyone else establishing a slave trade. Britannia will rule the waves centuries ahead of time, and I will set the example of how to use that rule for international justice." He said the next words slowly but firmly to his brother. "There will be no Armies of Conversion."

Dickon glanced nervously back at the captain and men cooling their heals at the mouth of the pier. "Christ, don't let anyone hear you. They'd hang us in a second."

Edward smiled. "For your ears only. But on the other side of the passage everyone will hear them."

His brother looked at him with admiration. Which was so good to see. Too often in recent years concern and even pity issued from those eyes.

"So will you go with me, my Duke of York?"

"We go together or stay together. I never meant otherwise."

"We go?"

"Yes. Damn, I'm getting excited. If we plan and do carefully, we can save the world a lot of misery. Maybe this is what was intended all along. Maybe both futures are a demonstration of what not to do."

"The gods work in mysterious ways."

"I feel privileged. I really do."

"I want you involved in every decision. I plan to work your arse off."

"I'm ready."

"Are you ready for lunch? That is another change I will make. Dinner will become lunch, and supper will become dinner."

Dickon laughed. "What about brunch?"

"Another introduction."

It was good to see Dickon back in his usual good humor. That bright and warm demeanor had been the only sunshine in his life for so many years.

They turned and strolled toward the soldiers.

"And another change. I will clean up our London. It always disgusted me, entering that absolute pigsty. I will put felons to the job. A lot better than them rotting in Newgate and the Fleet."

"Excellent idea."

Dickon was showing a lot of shiny white teeth now.

Edward smiled, too, thinking of Margaret Beaufort. She had failed again, and would continue to fail. If he had his way he would draw and quarter her, but he would keep his word to Dickon. She would live as long as she did not outright attempt treason.

In a way spending the rest of her natural life at Pembroke Castle made for a worse punishment. Each day of the ten years left to her at that remote fortress she could reflect that a half century hence no one with Tudor blood would exist. On her deathbed she would bewail that the world would never hear of the crown jewel of her dynasty, Elizabeth I.

The captain ordered present arms as Edward approached. Pride ran through him. After so long an interval, the recognition by the warriors of England, that he was their rightful sovereign. Well, not really, this salute was just a courtesy. But shortly it would be for real. And the Plantagenet line—long presumed dead—would rise to new heights of glory.

Chapter 16

**W** ard stood stunned. The King went on, but all Ward could hear was repetition of "You will therefore accompany said expedition, and chronicle all that you see and hear." The words boomed in his brain.

Then he became aware of absolute silence in the Council chamber. The King had stopped talking, and instead Big Tom was frowning at him. No, it was worse than that. The King looked like he had swallowed spoiled milk.

"Our Earl of Kent, does this not please you?"

"Your Majesty, I..." Ward could barely get his breath out.

"Yes? Speak up, man."

Cardinal Jeffress engaged his mouth before Ward could. "Your Majesty, you are observing a habit I have noticed several times since the Restorer's arrival in the realm. When presented with a demanding situation he falls silent. He never intends disrespect. He is instead contemplating how to successfully deal with the situation."

The King harrumphed. "Indeed?"

All of a sudden Ward had an urge to run from the room. But of course that was impossible. He did manage a coherent reply.

"Your Majesty does me great honor with this appointment. It is just—somewhat unexpected."

"You are an esteemed chronicler, aren't you? Or so it is said."

"I was. Now I just...I have so many other duties, sir. I have nearly thirty estates to manage. I don't see how I can spare the time to—"

Again Jeffress rescued him. "His Majesty has first call on every subject's time—and duty. Even before that owed to the most beautiful woman in the realm." The Cardinal winked at the King and Big Tom broke a smile.

"I can understand your reluctance to part from that lass, my man. But I must insist. I do expect full devotion to this charge."

"Of course, Your Majesty." Ward forced the words out

Oh Christ, had he been sucker punched. When he arrived at Greenwich Palace he had dared hope to leave it bearing the title of Duke of Kent. At the very least he expected to be granted some more estates.

But this!

It started out auspiciously enough. He'd walked into this gilded chamber and all the ministers rose as one. Everyone, including the King, beamed affection and gratitude. Then the King called him before the great window that ran the length of the chamber, the one facing Observatory Hill—except no observatory stood on the hill—and read cheerfully from some parchment.

Ward had smiled as the King announced that the Earl of Kent was appointed to the newly created post of Royal Historian. He smiled more broadly upon hearing that a yearly stipend of one thousand pounds and two scribes went with it. His ears perked higher in anticipation of additional honors. After all, much was due the Restorer of the World.

The King then announced that the expedition to subdue a heretical uprising in Wales would depart in a fortnight. Of the men in the Council chamber Ward was sure only the King, Jeffress, and himself knew the true purpose of the expedition. Which was of course to proceed to the passage and invade the England that had existed five hundred years before.

Then the punch. The Royal Historian was to accompany the expedition. An expedition carrying in its train three people who definitely did not wish him well. Ward could take comfort in that Margaret Beaufort would be a prisoner. But the Princes would not. Those two, who had to absolutely hate his guts, would see their authority grow with every mile westward.

Was the King mad? Did Big Tom really expect Ward would make it back to write any chronicles?

The King still looked peeved. Ward thanked him again for the position. He could not however fake enthusiasm. Everyone in the room must have caught his insincerity for jaws were taut as ministers shifted on their feet.

Again Jeffress rescued him. The Cardinal broke another strained silence to inform Ward that his presence was no longer required as the Council had to move onto other matters. He however requested that Ward wait for him in the west gardens. He would be along within the hour.

Actually it was more like ten minutes.

Ward was in full mope mood when Jeffress hurtled out the west portico into the garden. Ward had no idea the old man could move so fast. For a moment he had an image of an advancing tornado. Concern rather than wrath played on the Cardinal's face, but Ward still leaned on his heels in anticipation of a tongue lashing.

The Cardinal in his garb of black with red trim swept past him, motioning toward the vast green behind the palace. "Come with me."

Sun and shadow chased each other across the green as they strode onto its carpet-like surface.

"You are an intelligent man, Roger. Why do you not act like it? What were you thinking, so openly showing your displeasure to the King?"

"It was more shock."

"He has shown you great favor with this appointment. And you veritably piss on his shoes."

"I—I meant no such thing. It was just the last thing I expected." Ward took a long breath. "And I admit it is the last thing I want any part of."

"Those are very foolish words."

"Your Eminence, I fear for my life. Once on the other side of the passage, the Princes can do with me as they please. I doubt I would see this England again."

The Cardinal tut-tutted. "I forgot what an active imagination you possess. Let me remind you that Colonel Wells, not Edward or Richard, is in command of this expedition. His orders come from me. And those orders include guaranteeing your safety from beginning to end. It is as if you have a fifteen hundred man bodyguard."

They were heading up the long hill of the green. Ward was impressed that the Cardinal's pace barely slackened. The man had to be in his seventies, at least. The tonic of escaping paralysis must have turned back his biological clock a couple of decades.

Ward considered the Cardinal's words. Reassuring, to be sure. With the Northumberland Sabers a man could go anywhere and not need to watch his back.

But he still didn't want to go.

"Can't you intercede with the King to get me out of this? Say that I haven't fully recovered from the blow to my head? I mean, I occasionally get dizzy."

The Cardinal abruptly stopped. Now anger did cross his weathered face. "I believe any dizziness you experience is due to the charms of your betrothed."

"I just have this terrible feeling I won't be coming back."

"You are not in any danger."

"What would happen if I just declined the appointment? I hope I have that option."

"You do. Of course, the King would view it as a great insult."

"If I could explain to him."

"Roger, the King likes you. He respects you. Reject this appointment and that is lost. You will never be invited to court again."

He could live with that. The Royal Family was a boring lot, all considered. Just leave him his earldom and Deborah.

"And the King in his annoyance could reclaim Penshurst Place. I had to argue hard to get him to part with it. Other estates could follow."

Ward's throat constricted. "If I could explain."

"This is partly my fault. I have spoiled you from the first day. Now let me explain: you will lose the majority of your estates. You will be removed from the peerage. You will be persona non grata in high society. When all this becomes apparent to Deborah, she will drop you—as they say in the other world—like a hot potato. Tell me, my Earl of Kent, do you at last understand that you will obey your king like any other subject?"

Ward did feel dizzy. There was no way out of this.

Jeffress took him by the elbow. "Roger, it grieves me to see you distressed. I owe you so much. I promise this, you will be back in time for your wedding date. And you must realize that you will witness and chronicle the transforming event of the past millennium. Surely that is a great reward in itself."

"You think I'll be back by December?"

"It will be a short campaign, whether Henry Tudor yields or fights."

Yes, the Sabers should sweep all in their path. But Ward had studied enough military history to know means always existed to thwart seemingly irresistible troops. Henry was an intelligent man and Edward's "terms" would make him a desperate and clever foe.

"You will still perform the ceremony?"

A broad smile. "Of course, of course. With great joy."

"Well, I guess I better accept the appointment."

"You will not regret it. You are an able historian and the chronicles you produce will likely outshine even Jonathan's. I look forward to their delivery—which the King expects within a year of your return."

"A year. I could have it out by spring."

"Quality rules in our land, Roger. Haste does not."

They had reached the top of the wind swept hill. Ward looked back toward the glittering palace which stretched several hundred yards along the Thames.

The Cardinal dropped his voice, although the nearest people were dots on the palace grounds below. "I must tell you—in supreme confidence, as this is not even for Deborah's ears—that the King and I have been discussing the direction of his dynasty. If your first born is a daughter, and without defect, the King is prepared to propose a union between the houses of Plantagenet and Ward-Lyttleton. He will offer to betroth the Crown Prince to her."

Ward's breath caught at the prospect. This was incredible, that his daughter might be a queen and his first male grandchild eventually the king of England.

"I—you are serious?"

"Have I deceived you yet?"

"I am greatly, greatly honored. Yet surely there are far more suitable matches for the Crown Prince, both in England and abroad."

"There has been too much inter-marrying among the royalty of Europe and the Americas. You remember the degraded state of European monarchies prior to 1914 in the other world? A similar situation exists now and the King is big enough to admit it. We are looking for an infusion of high quality blood. If Deborah had come along ten years earlier I dare say Thomas himself would have married her, commoner or not. Now that she will rank as a countess, any of her offspring move to the front of the queue."

What about his contribution to the genetic makeup of the future king? Was that how the Cardinal really saw him, just as a conduit for the Lyttleton line?

Jeffress patted his shoulder. "And we are glad to get your fine American blood. Your and Deborah's infusion will return Plantagenet to stellar quality."

They started back down the hill. Ward again thanked the Cardinal. However the words Jeffress had baldly stated to him in the hospital returned full force: "You were used, from start to finish".

Jeffress was still playing him like a harpsichord. So far only good fortune had resulted, but he didn't like it. Once the expedition was over and he was safely married to Deborah he would put distance between himself and the Cardinal. Once betrothal to the Crown Prince was in the bag Ward would sever ties completely.

Ward had meant to raise the matter of Lady Margaret's letter with Jeffress. Now he would stay silent. The Cardinal obviously did not suspect Ward in league with her. If Jeffress did, Ward would not be joining an expedition that would put him and the Princes in prolonged proximity.

Jeffress might not have even seen Lady Margaret's letter. That wily woman had probably penned similar protestations of acquiescence to the King and to the Princes. The censors then might not have considered the letter to Ward in any way subversive.

Nor would Ward bring up founding a college. That too would wait until his daughter was betrothed to the Crown Prince. Then Ward would directly approach King Tom on the matter. Maybe the Cardinal would be dead by then, too.

When they returned to the palace, Ward begged off joining the Council for the midday meal. He instead pleaded the need for some private time and the Cardinal said he understood. Ward however would be required to attend a state banquet that evening. Where, of course, the newly created Royal Historian would be the guest of honor.

**J** ust before noon Ward slipped away from the palace and hired a boat to take him upriver to London. The two men stroking were burly lads who rowed hard, and aided by the advancing tide the boat jetted over the dark green water.

He massaged a knot of muscle at the base of his neck. Relax, he told himself. Relax. Sure, anything could happen during a military campaign, but the Sabers were excellent troops commanded by a battle-wise commander. They also possessed firearms. The campaign should be over inside a month, and Edward crowned within two. And then Ward could come home.

When he returned his future was secure. The King would be beholden for a job well done. In December he would marry the most desirable woman imaginable, and afterwards he could settle into a comfortable life at Penshurst.

He smiled as he thought of the Cardinal's revelation. Deborah would be ecstatic when she learned the destiny of her first born daughter. Her opinion of Ward would soar to new heights. Never in her wildest dreams would have Deborah considered a child of hers becoming Queen of England. Ward would bask in her gratitude forever.

The rowboat rounded a curve in the Thames and the rolling green countryside gave away to the outskirts of London. He could see the outline of the Tower about a mile up the river. Pride surged through him. The Tower symbolized the long standing mystery of the missing Princes, and this past summer he had solved the mystery. He ranked that accomplishment even ahead of the acquisition of an earldom and Deborah.

The rowers took him through the long center arch of a reconstructed London Bridge and landed him at a pier near Blackfriars Monastery. As he walked past the monastery walls, he reached out to ascertain he was not encountering an apparition. Solid stone stopped his fingers.

Ward shook his head. The monastery was gone in the other world, and extant in this one. Did the ghost of the monastery lurk in the other world, and in this one could anyone sense the train station that occupied the same spot? On a foggy day were both structures half ghost, half real?

He strode into the London that was really more a gigantic village than a city. Everyone greeted him with smiles, just as in the town that bordered Penshurst Place. But here the good citizens had not the faintest idea they greeted the Restorer of the World. Which was fine by him. Adulation had become wearisome.

The smiles of the citizenry continued as he strolled on red brick sidewalks that flanked broad paved streets. On the streets moderate traffic of the four legged variety ambled past. On neither the sidewalks nor the streets did anyone seem in any particular hurry, though he was walking through a district that teemed with shops.

Well, some individuals moved quickly: the teenagers in the white and crimson uniforms of national service, who were stationed one to a block. Whenever a horse unloaded its bowels these youngsters hustled to scoop up the mess. God help any stray piece of paper, too. Despite the disagreeableness of their tasks the national servers greeted Ward amiably.

Each shop displayed goods of the highest quality. Ward was drawn into several by the absolute exquisiteness of the merchandise. The crystal ware in one establishment particularly excited him; he had never seen such meticulous craftsmanship past or present. For Deborah he bought a statuette of rider and horse jumping a hedge and for himself a globe of the world. The proprietor assured Ward both would arrive in one piece at Penshurst Place.

He debated getting something for Anne. Something to show his appreciation for her so brightening each day. But no, she could easily misconstrue a gift. He must not lead her on in any way.

He laughed. Saucy little Anne.

Ward wandered northward and eventually the shops gave way to residences. He thought himself abruptly in the countryside, for foliage immediately overwhelmed the eye. Trees, hedges, flowers all obscured a plethora of detached houses. Most of the houses were small, cottages really, but none hinted impoverishment.

Traffic and pedestrians thinned, but passersby continued to smile warmly. Again Ward was impressed how no one hurried—or tarried. People just went about things at a reasonable pace. Here, and at Penshurst, and at the Royal Palaces. He wondered if the word stress even existed in this England.

He had come to love the calmness, the civility—and yes, the order of this world. Lady Margaret could say what she wanted, but this was a well adjusted populace. The bizarre and outrageous didn't have a place here. Solid citizenry did.

The old battleaxe should appreciate just how Christian this England was. People lived their faith. To his credit the Cardinal had reminded him that this was not a perfect land; rape, murder, theft still occasionally occurred. But people really seemed to care about each other. The smiles from strangers meant something deeper, that he, everyone, was part of the same extended family.

Ward walked on, through more streets lined with thick foliage. The trees had begun to cast longer shadows, which meant the afternoon was getting on. He should think about heading back to Greenwich. Yet he would explore a little more.

Presently he came upon a green over which a horde of young men surged back and forth. A scattering of onlookers ringed the men, who appeared to play a type of soccer. Two dozen were on each team and the object they kicked was the size of a pumpkin.

These contestants pummeled only the ball. Players bumped, but did not throw body checks or tackle. If a contestant took a tumble, the one who knocked him down instantly offered a helping hand.

With moderately raised voices the spectators offered encouragement. A score brought a more forceful response, but there was no fanaticism in these fans. For a moment he grew nostalgic for the ravenous passion he'd witnessed at sporting events in the other world. The moment passed.

"Roger Ward."

Ward thought his ears deceived him. Over the past weeks people had addressed him as Lord Ward, Restorer of the World, and My Earl of Kent. But rarely by the name that now seemed so foreign, the one that identified him in the other world.

He turned to see who spoke. With shock he found himself but a meter from Richard, the Duke of York. A dozen armed soldiers stood behind him. The Duke regarded Ward grimly.

Ward swallowed. He wondered if the Duke were about to administer private justice. That of course would be an outrage, but perhaps the Princes wanted payback badly enough to risk defying the Cardinal.

Then the Duke motioned toward the players on the field. "Rather tame, isn't it?"

Ward fumbled for a reply. "Yes, Your Highness. Very tame."

"Let's drop the titles, shall we? I'll be Richard and you can be Roger. It'll be refreshing." The Duke then told the soldiers to give them some room and they backed away to form a guarding perimeter.

Richard brought his handsome face a foot from Ward's. He bared teeth. "You couldn't leave it alone, could you?"

"Leave what alone?"

"The passage, us, everything. So much better if you had remained in the States."

Strange to hear reference to his nonexistent country. That great land, and the equally vanished Canada, bore the name of the Western Dominions. The Dominions nominally owed allegiance to Thomas and contained a vast aristocracy of its own.

"You just couldn't leave matters as they were. I had a life back there, you know. A good life. Dear friends and one wonderful lass I'll never see again. All thanks to you."

"Your High—Richard, I am sorry. I never thought of the human dimension involved."

"No, you only thought of your own gain. So what if it would cost two people their freedom—and probably their lives."

"Henry vowed he would not harm you. You would have been exiled to the Principality of Moscow instead."

"As if that is not harm. Okay, Henry Tudor may have spared us, he was a pious man, but his son executed every rival he could reach. I guarantee you he would have sent people after us."

Ward wanted to exit stage left. But since he had to accompany the expedition, this was a confrontation he could not avoid. Better to get it over with.

Again he apologized.

Richard waved his hand. "Give me a break—I believe that's what you Yanks say when faced with a load of bullshit. Tell me, what kind of man would deliver two innocents into the hands of their enemies? I would say a very selfish, evil man."

Richard was keeping his voice low, but there was venom behind the quiet words.

"Selfish yes, but not evil. At the end I was agonizing over your kidnapping. Believe me, I wanted no part of it."

"So that was your twin behind the wheel in the getaway car?"

"They'd have cut my throat if I tried to back out."

"You could have run the car into a building. That would have stopped the abduction cold and brought the bobbies running."

"I wish I had."

"Bullshit again."

"I know you hate me. I can't blame you. I just wish I had it to do over again."

"Do you? And give up your earldom? And the best looking woman I've ever seen?"

"Yes, I can truly say I would not trade your lives for the earldom or Deborah. I couldn't live with the price. Too high, Richard, much too high." Ward spoke with conviction and he believed he meant it.

Perhaps Richard thought so too, for the blaze in his stunningly blue eyes lessened

"Well, what is done is done. Just don't expect me to raise a glass with you during the next couple of months."

Ward tried to hide his relief. This husky Plantagenet didn't lust to snap his neck, and in fact might be inclined to treat him civilly. He started to offer another I'm so sorry, but held his tongue.

He did however venture a request. "I was hoping during the expedition you might favor me with an interview or two. And perhaps your brother might also agree to one."

Richard gaped, then smiled tightly. "You Yanks don't lack for gall, I'll give you that."

"It would be in your interest. I mean for posterity. History knows so little of you and your brother. I would think you would want the generations to come to have more to go on than the couple of pages that do exist."

"Let me think about it."

"The events surrounding you and your brother's fate were the central focus of my career—and my life, I guess. You two have consumed me. To stand here with you now is a miracle."

The grimness left Richard's smile. "Are you about to ask me for an autograph?"

"I would really like to hear about your life before your father died. What it was like growing up as a royal child."

"I really don't remember much of it. I can barely picture places and faces from those years. The real part of my life is the world you snatched me from."

That world was ever less real to Ward. But he didn't say so.

Richard swept his palm about. "What's your opinion of this place? If you can give an opinion unbiased by your good fortune. Fortune both unearned and undeserved, I don't have to add."

Ward let the gibe pass. "This world has its pluses. I believe the camaraderie I observe between complete strangers is genuine. I certainly have not encountered that on the streets of the other London...or in America."

"It doesn't bother you that the printing press is banned? Or that these people still believe the earth is the center of the universe?"

"If people are content, is that truly so bad?"

"They are sheep. Smiling sheep that accept whatever their lords and priests tell them."

"They're also hard working sheep that produce goods that would be the pride of any era."

"By toiling ten to twelve hours a day, six days a week."

"That's okay. It's in their own shops. Richard, you forget the agony the Industrial Revolution caused. Nothing like that exists here. I've yet to see any sign of poverty or exploitation."

"It doesn't bother you that Parliament comes into session but a half dozen times a generation? And then only to rubber stamp decrees of the Council?"

"From what I can tell the Council rules quite responsibly. The Cardinal especially seems an able statesman."

"It doesn't bother you that anyone found with a venereal disease—or HIV infection—is carted off to a walled compound for life?"

"Eminent good sense. In our world AIDS is loose with a vengeance. If they did quarantine those infected, millions of lives would be saved. I don't think you have an argument there."

"I've got plenty of argument."

Ward wondered if the Duke were playing Devil's Advocate or if he did so object to this world. Probably the former, to make Ward squirm over the cushy life he now enjoyed.

"Richard, think of the London you left behind. It's dirtier and more dangerous each time I come. Crime's rising at, what, ten percent a year now? And your national health care system is a joke, you're producing illegitimate kids at a record rate, and English manners are a thing of the past."

"That England is still way ahead of this one."

Ward resisted the urge to go for the jugular, the way he would have in his academic debates of old.

He merely swept out his own hand. "I see nothing perverse."

"That is because all the nutters and troublemakers also end up in walled compounds. Of course, here they are termed heretics."

"If this happy society is the result, maybe that's an acceptable price."

"Tell me, Roger Ward, were not you considered a troublemaker in the States? I dare say if you had grown up here you would by now reside behind the walls."

"That's preposterous."

Richard smiled wryly.

Then he nodded formally. "My Earl of Kent—Restorer of the World—I leave you to enjoyment of this bland contest. I will see you in a fortnight at Windsor."

Queasiness returned at mention of that date and place. Again he wished there were a way to dissuade the King from sending him on the expedition. He still dreaded it, despite Richard's seeming forgiveness.

Ward returned the nod. "Until then, Your Highness."

Richard departed, accompanied front and rear by the soldiers. The spectators gave them wide berth but not much in the way of curiosity.

Yeah, these people were sheep. Neither were they vigorous, except he supposed the military people. And the remote compounds housing the diseased, the crippled, the insane, the "heretics" and anyone else the realm found disagreeable—where, yes, he well could have landed—must give severe pause. Also the extinction of the cultures of Asia and Africa through the isolation and indoctrination of their young was without excuse.

And yet—the last mass atrocities of this civilization had occurred centuries ago, rather than during the immediate past as in his own world. The demons of this world were far less potent. They were almost tamed. If this world sacrificed past achievement in exchange for a peaceful and content present, so be it.

The gibe of "unearned and undeserved" returned to prick him. Richard had a point. Ward had gained fame and position, but certainly not by his own doing. The Cardinal and the King had handed him everything. Ward had done no better than the man who fell in the barrel of manure and came out smelling like roses.

In the other world he had burned to leave behind an admired legacy. There he had failed, but here he had another chance. Here he could make a difference. A decisive difference.

He would begin by making good on his plan to found a secular college. He would inspire the young gentlemen of this England to question rather than blindly accept. A society without curiosity withered. And a society that actively impeded the acquisition of knowledge committed suicide.

Of course he must be careful, lest he find himself branded heretic. But he could push and prod. As the father of a future queen and the grandfather of a king, along with a cleverly built web of friendship and influence, that would protect him mightily.

No, he would not sit on his ass at Penshurst and enjoy the bounty of his earldom. He had never just sat on his ass. All his life he had believed himself destined to leave a mark, a deep one.

A half millennium from now Restorer of the World would mean more than a tale about a man who saved the Royal Family. That tale would only be prolog. Restorer of the World would mean the man who got this civilization going again, the one who steered it toward the sunlit uplands mankind deserved after so much travail.

A goal was scored and the spectators responded with polite applause. Ward turned away.

### Part Four

### Saint George for England

Chapter 17

**M** argaret Beaufort shuddered as the head of the snake issued from Windsor Castle. The red snake named the Northumberland Sabers. Laden with lethal poison, ready to sink its fangs into the Tudor dynasty.

The leaden sheet of gray that formed the sky matched her mood. This mid October day promised chilling rain, the anticipation of which intensified the pain in her joints. That pain could however not match the agony in her heart. For that one organ, which had remained so stout through all previous trial, was breaking.

Trumpets blared and she watched mournfully as Edward and Richard—resplendent in purple velvet upon white chargers, and armed with sword and pistol—exited behind the vanguard. Another trumpet blast and Roger Ward, unarmed, exited on his own magnificent horse.

From her carriage seat she lifted eyes to the castle wall where stood the King and Queen and other dignitaries. None of them waved. The King stood stiffly with his lips pursed.

She had heard this king bore his distant forebearer no love. Undoubtedly Edward had treated Thomas II with the same chill arrogance as he had her. It must have tried the King sorely that he could not lay a hand on this contemptuous—and contemptible—young man. Thomas might not today smile, but he would dance tomorrow when he realized that Edward was gone for good.

Most regrettably this man-child was now entirely her problem.

Behind Ward paraded the regimental priests. The sight of these particular clerics, the silk of their green mantles and caps shimmering even in the gray light, never failed to revolt her. They betrayed God, all of them. One to each squadron and troop, they assured the military's obedience to the state as much as had the political commissars of Stalin. God must weep at sight of this debasement by His ordained.

The main body of the regiment followed the priests. At its head rode a fierce looking officer dressed in blood red uniform with gold piping—the renowned Colonel Wells, she presumed. By his side rode a child in duplicate uniform. Then she saw the child too sported a mustache and she realized she witnessed a midget. Very curious. Perhaps the little man was the regimental mascot.

"That is his son. Even shorter than you, I fear."

She knew the voice even before she whirled to see the face. With fury she turned in her carriage seat to lock eyes with the man she loathed even more than Roger Ward.

"Get away from me. Begone."

"Oh, that will happen shortly. When you and your companions join the tail of the column." The Cardinal inclined his head toward the two cages on wheels that held three of the four men who had attempted to abduct the Princes. She felt no pity for the two brutes in the closer cage, but her heart went out to Reginald Bray. He looked in a wretched state.

"If you were a true man of God, you would have them transported decently. They will be exposed to the elements, and this is not summertime. Sir Reginald especially will suffer."

"It is because I am a faithful servant of the Church that any of them still lives. They attempted the highest treason possible."

She wasn't going to get into an argument with this creature—who, if he served anyone except himself, obeyed the entity that bore the number six hundred sixty-six.

"Please get Sir Reginald a waterproof cape. And some blankets." She forced out the next words. "I beg you."

"I will see what I can do. But Edward Plantagenet may overrule me."

"Speak to Richard."

The lines in the old man's face danced as he smiled. "Of course. The better to spark dissension between the brothers."

"I—"

"Continue to plot, and your life will end this year instead of in ten years."

"I will keep my agreement." She had little choice now. Ward had obviously ignored the insinuated plea in her letter and Clarendon Park had obviously not changed Richard's mind. Unless God loosed a lightening bolt on the brothers, Tudor was doomed.

"Somehow I don't believe you. The wheels of conspiracy will always spin in your brain. But look—". He pointed to the artillery batteries now emerging from the wall. "The wheels of those cannon and caissons will overcome any scheme you may devise."

"I know my son cannot stand against the Sabers."

"I rather wish he would fight. We that serve the true royalty of England would delight in a second Towton Moor. To finish off the doubly bastard blood of Tudor."

Margaret flinched at the name of the battle—no, the one sided slaughter—that transpired nearly forty years ago. She had lost many relatives and friends that horrible day.

She could no longer master her tongue. "Do you ever dare stand before a mirror and behold your own vile visage? It would kill you."

"Now, now, Lady Margaret. Lose with some grace. For my part, I do acknowledge that you gave us quite a run over the past century."

A run that Lancaster and Tudor had apparently lost. Oh, Owen, see what your failure to finish the job has cost.

She cast the most malignant eyes she could upon Donald Jeffress, who had to be the escaped Keeper.

"It was you who caused the reversal in 1460, wasn't it?" she asked, or rather accused. "You came back and warned the Earl of March. You warned him and prevented his capture."

In the original chronicles Lancaster had seized this great warrior-general as he knelt at Mass. Lessors of the House of York then commanded at Mortimer's Cross and Towton. With the future Edward IV out of play, Lancaster won both those battles.

The Cardinal smiled. "Indeed. It was the obvious move."

"As was mine against Richard III and the Princes."

"Yes, in retrospect. I do fault myself for not better anticipating. By the saints, how I later damned you. In an instant I was transformed from a rising servant of the state in this world to the victim of an automobile accident in the perverted other. But even with no use of my limbs I fought back. And triumphed."

"With aid of the Antichrist."

"Look into your own mirror, Lady Margaret. It is the Son of Satan who you will see at your shoulder."

For a second she was tempted to thrust her fingernails into the eyes of the man who stood so smugly at the carriage window. But what would that accomplish? Only her summary execution. And a similar fate for her son and grandchildren.

"Lady Margaret, perhaps you will now part with a bit of information I have always coveted. Who convinced Richard II to call off the trial by combat?"

That question had always intrigued her too. She had thought God Himself induced the last truly legitimate king of England to forbid this combat, which in the original chronicles caused the death of Henry of Bolingbroke. Thus spared Henry took the crown from his cousin and became the first of the Lancastrian kings in 1400. The initial reversal resulted.

She had been certain God did this because He was appalled at the misuse of His faith that lay in the future. He never intended the faith to spread by the Armies and Schools of Conversion. Embrace of the faith must come to men by their own free will. After all, was not the message of His Son one of peace and mercy?

"I have no idea. Could it have been one of the Keepers? Who else could see five hundred years ahead?"

Another smile. "So you won't tell me? No matter."

She tried to block the thought that if God had changed the future then because it repelled him, he could be doing the same now. Perhaps the Twentieth Century—born in such promise—had too grievously failed his expectations. Perhaps He did not feel the Twenty-first was getting off to a good start either. Perhaps on second thought the Armies and Schools did not look so bad.

"Satan will tell you...when you again see him."

"Ah, Lady Margaret. You do not yield. But—jacta alea est."

Yes, the die was cast. Yet the cube was still rolling, the decision not final. God would determine which face of the die showed.

"If God is just and wise, which He is, Edward will never sit on the throne of England. And you will return to the bed where you can move only your head and not control your bowels."

The silver-haired man recoiled. She took great satisfaction in the naked fear that drained the blood from his face.

Blood rushed back and his voice hissed. "May Edward V exterminate your entire line. Now to you I say—begone!"

The Cardinal turned and walked swiftly away. Or rather, fled.

Her satisfaction quickly vanished. Her savage repartee had likely cost Sir Reginald any hope of proper clothing. The poor man was older than she, and the two months in Newgate had aged him more.

An order rang out and her carriage began to move. It joined the column. She looked back to see the horse drawn cages fall in behind the carriage. A final troop of cavalry brought up the rear, and the red snake slithered westward. Toward Wales, and the end of all she had labored so hard to secure.

She shuddered again and drew her fleece lined cape tight. For the first time in her life she knew God had abandoned her.

**I** t was becoming hot inside the tent as the midday sun beat on the canvas walls. Richard glowered at the priest who had demanded they shut even the window flaps. Ned didn't look too pleased either. Wells, however, kept from his face the aggravation he must feel.

"So what is it, Father Michael?" asked Ned. "Why can't this wait until evening?"

Richard nodded. The second day on the march Father Michael had demanded a chastisement council, but that wasn't until they set up camp for the night. That tomfoolery consisted of deciding what to do about some soldier that took the Lord's name in vain. The soldier got extra duty digging latrines.

The red-bearded cleric sitting across the field table offered no apology for holding up the advance. Mirthless blue eyes said a very serious transgression had occurred. Oh, yes, thought Richard. Probably someone had farted during grace at the mess just completed.

It irked the hell out of Richard that these busybodies in their shiny green garb treated the rest of them like wayward children. They were constantly admonishing. Yesterday one had told Richard that his failure to attend Mass was putting his soul in jeopardy, in addition to setting a very bad example. Richard had given the green sod his back.

He had been surprised at the deference these hardened troops, officers included, gave to the regimental clergy. The soldiers always lowered their heads when one approached. On the march profanity and jests abruptly ceased. In the evening camp followers were spilled from laps and wine jugs were pushed from sight. And everyone, unless sick or courting Hell like Richard, attended both dawn and dusk Mass.

"This was just brought to me, although it occurred during confession last night. Corporal Stiver of Troop Bartholomew admitted to urinating on garments in the vestry while at Windsor."

Richard almost burst out laughing. It was a nasty thing to do but still just a prank. And probably done while drunk.

Richard found the hard blue eyes stabbing into his. "You find such desecration amusing, my lord?"

Richard opened his mouth for a tart reply, but Ned cut him off. "You hold us up for this? Why didn't you tell your priest to have the corporal finger his rosary a dozen times? And I thought confessions were confidential."

The priest looked at Ned with hate. At Windsor Ned had shown the regimental clergy even less respect than had Richard. The clerics complained to both the King and the Cardinal to no avail. For some reason the quasi-heretical brothers were beyond rebuke.

Just as well they didn't know Ned's real feelings about Catholicism. In the other world Ned expressed only disdain for what he called the greatest con game of all time. Anyone buying into their pitch must possess cabbage for brains. He rated its rituals and venerations just a cut above those of the voodoo cult.

Richard himself did not admire the autocratic institution, but he had always respected Pope John Paul II. And he agreed with a number of their strictures, especially insistence on accepting personal responsibility and performing good works. He also knew a number of Catholics who had real gray matter between their ears.

"Defiling vestments was wicked enough," said the priest. "Yet Corporal Stiver has sinned more damnably. Each of his troop was required to swear—by holy oath—that he was not the one who committed this sacrilege. The corporal so swore."

The priest sat back with arms folded, case closed. Richard glanced over at Wells. The usually indomitable man had cast his eyes down.

"So what penalty do you suggest?" asked Edward.

The priest stiffened. Richard knew the proper word was "require".

Father Michael directed his response to Wells. "You will send the corporal to London under guard. There he will be tried in ecclesiastical court under charges of second degree heresy."

"And what will happen to him if found guilty?" asked Ned. They all knew the sentence, but Ned wanted the priest to have to spell it.

"He will go behind the walls, of course."

"Of course." Ned turned to Richard. "Roland, could you fetch the Earl of Kent? I think he, as the senior peer, should have this most serious matter brought before him. His sagacious counsel could be of use."

Richard did a double take. Then he noted the corners of his brother's mouth were notched upward. Ned didn't have a particularly good sense of humor, but apparently he intended to have some fun here.

Richard fetched the earl. Ward came into the stuffy tent looking pleased with himself. This was the first time they had invited him into such intimate contact. They had to share meals with him at officers' mess, but then they made sure he sat at the opposite end of the long table that wasn't long enough.

Ward took a seat and Father Michael politely re-explained the situation. Richard knew the priest had to be raging inwardly at the affront to his authority, but everyone understood that the earl was the Cardinal's fair-haired boy. Even if Ward did have the blackest hair and eyebrows of all time.

The Earl of Kent, to his credit, could not hide distaste as the priest restated his demand that the corporal be arrested and sent east. Where after a "trial", he would likely spend at least ten years in a compound trying to prove his rededication to the faith.

Ward, however, did watch his tongue. He looked over at Richard and Ned. They gave him encouragement neither one way nor the other.

Finally Ward cleared his throat and ventured: "It does seem rather excessive. I would think let the boy publicly confess and apologize, then maybe dock his pay a month or two. Would not that suffice?"

"It would not," hissed the priest. Richard could not now tell which were the redder, Father Michael's beard or face.

"I—". Again the Earl of Kent sought advice from the eyes of the three other laymen in the tent. He got none. "I have a problem with violation of the confessional. A priest is not supposed to divulge anything."

"The Holy Father has waived the contract where heresy is involved."

Ward threw out his palms. "Where's the heresy? The boy lied, yes. But where did he dispute church doctrine? I don't see it."

"Breaking a holy oath, this one sworn a on a relic of Saint Catherine, so qualifies. That point is well settled." Father Michael spoke through gritted teeth. "I will recommend the Cardinal see to your instruction in canon law. All peers should have more than just passing knowledge. Then they might make intelligent comment."

Richard watched the back of the Earl of Kent straighten.

"I'll have word with the Cardinal, too. About how you are a mindless little—"

"My Earl, Father Michael, please." Ned now stood. "I have a proposal that perhaps everyone will find amenable."

The angry eyes of Ward and the priest turned to Ned. "I can take the corporal into my service. He will accompany me when my brother and I leave this land. It will of course mean his permanent exile, but I doubt he will object when presented with the alternative. Would the Church find this satisfactory?"

The priest had folded his arms again. "He has committed heresy."

Richard wanted to belt the man. Thank God these green shits would not accompany the regiment through the passage. They would remain at Pembroke Castle until the expedition returned.

Again he was struck by how Colonel Wells wasn't saying anything. This was his man whose fate was being decided.

"I will take him into my service," said Ned. "When you return to Windsor you may register your objection to the Cardinal. But the matter now is closed."

The priest cast demanding eyes at Wells.

Wells finally spoke, very quietly. "I have orders from Cardinal Jeffress to defer on all matters not of the battlefield to our noble lords Emil and Roland. Corporal Stiver is hereby expelled from the Sabers. But he will remain with the expedition."

The priest shot from the tent.

Richard silently said hooray for Ned. He was encouraged how well Ned had handled what was a sticky situation. Very coolly, very decisively, and best of all, with compassion. If he continued in his vein, the England they were returning to would prosper.

Then Ward made a remark, one that made Richard glad it wasn't Ward about to mount the throne of England.

"You have admit—I mean I find it appalling as you do about subverting the confessional—but from a Machiavellian point of view it is a very effective means of monitoring dissent."

"That is all, my Earl of Kent," said Ned. "We thank you for your assistance. We must return to the march."

"Your Grace, may I take this opportunity to again request an interview? I promise to keep it short."

"We shall see. I suggest you get to horse. We depart instantly."

Richard thankfully emerged from the stifling tent into crisp autumn air. As he climbed onto his horse, he was very glad to be headed toward the escape hatch in Pembrokeshire. He remembered how a bare six weeks ago he had dismissed the epithet "this demented world". How accurately Lady Margaret had spoken.

Well, he and Ned would see to it that this world never birthed.

**E** dward had to watch his footing even though a half moon hung in the night sky. Wells on the other hand stepped surely over the heath as they walked toward the next sentry post. Edward wagered the master warrior could find his way under a new moon.

He was impressed that Wells made the round of sentry posts every night. So easily Wells could have delegated the chore.

But a real leader went the extra mile. The men knew Wells cared enough to personally check their performance and at the same time he made himself available for an informal chat. The tactic sharpened discipline and fostered loyalty. Edward would deal similarly with the commons. (Though he must say, there was more than one way to assure loyalty. Roger Ward had hit it on the head with his remark about the efficacy of confessionals to monitor the populace.)

He welcomed this opportunity to be alone with Wells. Here beyond the perimeter of camp no one could eavesdrop. He knew Wells was still unsettled by the confrontation with Father Michael this afternoon. Edward found it fantastic a man of Wells' mettle need worry how he stood with a third-rate cleric. In his kingdom that would not happen.

"Colonel, I pray that I did not put you in a bad spot." Of course he had and deliberately so.

"It would have been better to let Father Michael have his way."

"The priest will report that I insisted, not you."

"You will be gone, my lord. I must return. Father Michael is a spiteful man and I know he will not let the matter lie."

"I will write a full explanation of my decision. You will carry it to Cardinal Jeffress when you return."

"You are most gracious. But the Cardinal will not live forever."

They neared a sentry. The sentry challenged them with "Saint?" and Wells responded with "Sebastian." They came closer and in the ghostly light Edward saw the sentry smile as he recognized the colonel. On the march or in camp the men did not beam in the presence of their stern commander, but out here it was obviously different. Now it was more like father with son.

They spoke to the soldier for about ten minutes, then headed on.

"I believe your men would follow you anywhere," said Edward.

"They would do anything for me. I would do anything for them."

"I might say the same concerning us."

"My lord?"

"Moments ago you said 'I must return'. Why must you return? You do not need to."

The colonel stopped. Moonlight softened the harsh features of his face. His voice however hardened. "My lord, you speak as might the weak of mind."

"I have been called many things. But never weak of mind."

"We speak no more of this matter."

Edward sensed danger. This man was charged with protecting him and Dickon, to the extent of forfeiting his own life if necessary. But the way Wells' body tensed said that Edward courted blows with the broad side of a saber. Or worse.

"Colonel Wells, let me say just this. You are a fighting man; from the time you were twelve years old you have distinguished yourself in combat. I know you are sorely disappointed that you will not participate in the final China campaign. You must resent me and my brother, because we are the cause of your deprivation."

Wells said nothing.

"But the China campaign will likely be the last real warfare this world sees. Even if you were in China, you would still face that reality. In two or three years the Sabers—if they are not disbanded—will serve only as ceremonial troops. I offer you escape from that."

"I said we will not speak of this."

"Hear me out. Then you can curse me to hell."

"When I received my commission I swore an oath to serve, honor, and obey my king. I can never violate that. I will never violate that."

Edward wanted this regiment permanently in his employ. Yes, the Sabers would easily gain him his crown. But getting the crown was only prologue. During the last hundred years England had seen the occupant of the throne forcibly removed five times, himself one of the victims. A sixth ejection was about to occur. The Sabers would prevent a seventh.

"Your oath was to the king of England. On the other side of time I will be that king."

The night was so quiet. Edward strained his ears, but heard nothing, not even insects. It had been a long, long time since he encountered such utter silence.

Then he did hear something, the drawing and exhaling deep breaths from the colonel. Edward wanted to step back, but of course he couldn't. He must stand like a king even if this fearsome man erupted in rage. Wells would never follow a man who backed up.

Edward ventured more persuasion. "I know Cardinal Jeffress has promised you the Constableship of England. He would also have Thomas create you a baron. I will do more. I will name you Constable, create you Duke of Monmouth, and give you war."

"My lord—"

"I intend to bring both Scotland and Ireland firmly to heel. You have never battled any people like the Scots. I have no doubt you will prevail, but they will test your Sabers. After those campaigns, Flanders and Zeeland await. As do the lost Plantagenet provinces of Anjou and Acquataine in France. Tell me, does this not wet your appetite?"

Wells now paced before him. Very good. Edward now dealt the coup de grace.

"Our Duke of Monmouth, I also pledge this. One of my daughters—not the first born of course—I will betroth to your son."

Cardinal Jeffress had told him of the similar bait dangled before Roger Ward. But unlike Jeffress' promise, Edward's was genuine. For the Colonel was to live and prosper, while the Earl of Kent would not.

Wells stopped moving and looked at him incredulously. "You would do that?"

Edward raised his right hand. "It is the will of the King."

Wells' voice caught as he fumbled for words. Edward knew how much this man loved his stunted and lackwit son. Whose marriage prospects, to say the least, were nil.

Wells had been married twice, and Theodore was his only issue. It was rumored Wells carried weak seed, though certainly no one said that within his hearing. Wells had probably deduced the same and that his line would die out.

Then Edward was shocked to find the Terror of China on his knees, swearing fealty. Edward took the colonel's powerful hands in his and guided him up.

The colonel quickly regained his bearing. With much more dignity Wells thanked him. They walked on toward the next sentry.

Edward was pleased with himself, of course, but he couldn't help but feel repugnance at thought of a future daughter enduring copulation with the likes of Theodore. The poor girl would cry a vale of tears. And what a debasement of Plantagenet blood, any children that resulted.

He could hope that Theodore died before his daughter reached the minimum age for marriage. Now twelve, he would have it raised to fifteen. He didn't know the average lifespan of midgets, but certainly the genetic deficiencies would have to reduce their years. If marriage did occur and offspring were produced, Edward would reluctantly but necessarily compel these grandchildren to enter monastery or convent.

That however was a matter for the distant future. This day, this night, he had all but assured that he would reign over England until he died of natural causes. No mean feat for a man who only two months ago faced a life of oblivion.

Chapter 18

" **I** thought you handled the matter with Corporal Stiver very well," said Ward.

Edward Plantagenet waved off the compliment. "I will give you until we reach Witney. There this interrogatory ends."

Ward's spirits soared. That should allow at least an hour more. From Edward's increasing coolness—and Edward had been frosty to begin with—Ward thought the interview nearing its end.

He had about done cartwheels this morning when Edward said he would submit. However Edward insisted the interview be conducted as they rode. Ward of course would have preferred to have their tête-à-tête over wine in his tent. He could have recorded the whole conversation verbatim; his shorthand was pretty good. Yet he would make do. He would listen carefully, then write with a fury when they broke for lunch.

The Oxfordshire countryside slid gracefully by. This was cattle country, and many score of the black creatures dotted the gently rolling hills. Several massive cows and one even bigger bull—its glower reminded Ward of Wells—looked the Sabers over from just beyond a split rail fence. The fine English grass they chewed would make them into incredibly delicious beefsteak. Ward knew he was ruining his arteries, but he couldn't get enough of that meat.

It was a gorgeous autumn day. Leaves on the oaks had already turned, and the rest of the trees sported a tinge of color. The pastures gave off that heady farmland aroma he remembered from travels through central Pennsylvania. The cool air was bracing; he was ready for whatever life could throw at him.

"My Earl of Kent, you are done with me?"

Ward gave an embarrassed smile. "No, Your Grace. Forgive me. I was just—may I ask about the day your uncle struck down Hastings? Everyone has long wondered what you saw. And what you felt."

The interview could end right now. Edward had probably walled off memories of that horrible day in June of 1483—the ultimate Friday the 13th. But why have an interview without trying to bring to light those memories so long hidden from the world? He had a duty as a historian to ask, and he had yearned half his life to ask.

Edward answered, but kept his eyes on the road that ran straight as an arrow to the horizon.

"I saw it all," he answered without emotion. "I heard the commotion when they brought Lord Hastings—or I should say dragged him—from the White Tower onto the Green. I had a clear view of it from the royal apartments. At first I did not understand, then I understood all too well."

"Was your uncle among those on the Green? The records are unclear."

"Uncle Dickon was nowhere to be seen. I suppose he had not the stomach."

Ward doubted that. Richard III had witnessed beheadings before. Ward was surprised to hear Edward refer in the familial to the man who came so close to killing him. "The bloody betraying bastard" would be more like it.

"What went through your mind when you saw Lord Hastings executed? I mean, as it pertained to your situation?"

William, Lord Hastings, had resisted strong pressure from Richard to aid in the act of usurpation. Hastings had been loyal friend to Edward IV, and the same steadfast loyalty he pledged to the boy king Edward V. He was the implacable object in the path of Richard's ambition.

The handsome head adorned with the buttercup blond hair still did not turn toward Ward.

"I knew I was dead. Unless I immediately got out of the Tower. I turned to flee, but some of my uncle's men were already at the chamber entrance. When I saw them I sank to my knees."

Ward swallowed. This was heavy stuff, a scoop of the first order. Too bad he would publish to a very limited audience.

Edward went on. "My uncle came by that afternoon to express his regrets about the demise of Lord Hastings. His death had been necessary, he said, Hastings and others were plotting to seize control of the Council. With a straight face my uncle claimed it had all been done for my safety."

"Was Buckingham with him?"

"Yes. Right behind him. Not bothering to veil a smirk of triumph."

"Well, they're both dead and you're alive."

"I believed I would die within weeks. But I had hoped my brother might escape. My mother should have gotten him out of Westminster. He was small enough then they could have concealed him a dozen ways. My heart was ripped from me when they brought him to the Tower three days later. I could not bear that Dickon was going to share my fate."

"That must have been tough." Ever since he learned the story of the Princes it had tugged at Ward, the despair the two lads must have felt. Especially the older brother, precocious enough to know there would be no fairy tale deliverance.

Except there was.

"When Buckingham came for you, you must have thought that was the end."

"Yes."

Even now the voice of Edward did not tighten. He may as well have been remarking on the weather that fateful night. Edward may not want to display private emotion to Ward—who Edward had made plain he disdained. But Ward had seen Edward display scant emotion to anyone the past several days.

Edward Plantagenet was surely his mother's son. That beautiful but heartless woman with the golden tresses they called the gilded icicle. His father bubbled with joie de vivre and even dour Richard III exuded a smoldering anger. Ward feared that this man, soon to head a realm, bore only coldness at his core.

Edward quietly went on. "I was prepared for death once they put us in the sacks. I begged they strike us unconscious before ending our lives. Poor Dickon was sobbing in his terror. But I felt glad in a way. I was relieved the waiting for death was over." Now he turned to face Ward. Chill aquamarine eyes nearly bowled Ward off his horse.

"Do you know what it is like, Master Ward, to wait for death? Not knowing what day, what hour it is coming, but knowing it will come nonetheless?"

It was Ward now who wanted an end to the interview. He sputtered his answer. "No, your Grace. Not at all."

"It is very terrible."

Ward was about to say "I can imagine", but thankfully his brain got hold of his tongue. "Thank God for Lady Margaret," he blurted instead.

"Ah, yes. Margaret Beaufort."

"She did save you."

"Only because she did not wish to burn in Hell."

Ward knew he best change the subject. "What did you think when you came into the Twentieth Century? It must have stunned you."

Again the dry, quiet voice. "The Beaufort woman had prepared us."

Definitely time to end the interview. For courtesy's sake he prolonged it another fifteen minutes, then he thanked Edward for sparing the time. Edward indifferently dismissed him.

Back in his usual position in the column Ward for the first time considered that Richard III had done everyone a favor by usurping his nephew.

**I** t had clouded up as evening approached, but the temperature was rising. Ward gave thanks for that as he carried a bucket filled with stew toward the cages. When he got within twenty yards the stench from the two cages swept aside the succulent odor of the beef and onion pottage.

The way Bray and the boys whipped their heads around told they detected the food nonetheless. The guards about the cages smiled at Ward, and curiously eyed the bucket and bowls he held.

The corporal of the guard bowed to Ward, then said: "My lord, we thank you. But we just finished mess."

Ward hadn't been sure how this would be received. He certainly had not asked Edward or Wells whether he could bring the prisoners hot food. He didn't bear the members of the Gang any particular affection, but it was disgraceful all they got was bread, raw vegetables, and some jerky. He'd seen how ravenously they devoured it, too.

In addition he was going to bring them more blankets. There had been a light frost on the land this morning, and worse was sure to come. The trio wore little more than rags now and they had one blanket apiece. He might even try to round up some waterproof capes; the bars of the cages weren't going to keep out wind driven rain.

Ward nodded toward the prisoners. "It is for them."

"The traitors?" The corporal's face screwed.

"Yes. They have to get where they are going alive." With that he stepped past the man. He hoped his status as an earl would prevent further challenge.

It did, save some muttering by the guards.

He first went to the cage that held Simon and Peter. The reek of them and the bucket that served as their privy almost brought up the dinner Ward had downed a half hour before. The boys were in a sorry state, with hollowed cheeks and sunken eyes. He bet this would be their first decent meal since landing in Newgate jail seven weeks ago.

The boys babbled their thanks as he ladled the steaming stew into bowls. They fairly inhaled it. Ward gave them a refill, which disappeared just as quickly. He ladled more and sternly told them to slow down if they wanted to retain it. He hoped the tenderloin in the stew wouldn't prove too rich.

"May all the saints preserve you, Roger," said Simon as he came up for air.

"Yea," said Peter. "We are brothers now."

Ward hoped not. "I will bring some blankets later. And I will try to get you some food everyday."

Again more blessings as they wolfed down the stew. Brown juice clung to the scraggly beards that had grown the past seven weeks. God, did they look pathetic.

He saw less than a third of stew remained in the bucket. He bade the boys well and turned toward the cage holding Reginald Bray. Night was falling fast, but enough light remained to illuminate what the ravages of deprivation had done to the elderly man. The trusted advisor of King Henry was more bone than flesh.

Bray coughed as he approached. Ward hoped the man had not developed consumption.

"Sir Reginald, this will help you." Ward filled a bowl and put it in the shaky hands of the man behind the wrought iron bars.

Bray ate with more discipline than the boys, though his hunger had to be as great. He chewed the morsels carefully and washed down each mouthful with water. Water at least was provided in plenty.

When Bray had his fill he simply said, "I thank you."

"I will bring you another blanket. No, two. And a cape."

"Why do you do this?" Bray might be emaciated, but the steely eyes remained.

"It is my Christian duty," said Ward. Which sounded better than "because it's the decent thing to do, asshole".

Bray grunted. Then he lowered his voice. "Cannot you tell they are going to kill you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Only the most blind could fail to see. Edward will execute you. As he will us."

Ward drew back from the stinking man. "Who told you to say this? Lady Margaret?"

"I do not need anyone to tell me what is plain. Three of the four that came for him lie in these foul cages. It is only a matter of time before you join us."

Ward flushed. This was Lady Margaret's doing. Now, as the expedition drew ever closer to the passage, her desperation would exponentially increase. She would use the most outrageous lie to lure Ward to her cause.

"You are not going to die. You will however spend the rest of your lives along with the Lady in Pembroke Castle. Which confining as it is, will stand you better than these cages."

"The Plantagenet wants our blood. Look into his eyes. You can see it. He will have his vengeance."

"He is over that. He has the crown, or will soon get it. Besides, we were just following the command of King Henry. Edward knows we did not come for him for personal reasons."

"In my time, everything is a personal matter."

"I don't think the man feels anything."

Bray shook his head. "Yea, you are even more of a fool than I thought."

Ward wanted to snap "look who's inside the cage and who's not." He instead gave Bray another bowl of stew. But he debated bringing the man more blankets. Why should he show any further kindness to someone trying to get him to do Margaret Beaufort's wet work?

Bray dropped his voice lower. "Get you out of England. To the Continent. Go tonight if you can. It is your only chance."

Ward turned on his heel. He vowed he would not be back.

**W** ard did bring them blankets a couple of hours later. However he said not a word as he pushed the blankets through the bars and quickly walked away from any thanks.

As he returned to the body of the regiment, with its orderly rows of tents and campfires, a group of soldiers called to him.

"Lord Earl, how fare you tonight?"

Ward turned to see a dozen of the Sabers circled about a low burning fire. Most were smiling at him. He smiled back.

The soldiers of course had treated him with respect since he joined the regiment at Windsor. They would grant that to any member of the nobility. Yet the respect was turning to friendship. From the start he had struck up conversation with everyone from private to officer. He did so partly to gain background material for his chronicles; he also found he liked these lads.

The soldiers reminded him of the young and cheerful men who served him at Penshurst. These men were hardened troops, to be sure, but they seemed decent enough. And they responded well to his attention. He was sure no other peer of the realm deigned to chat with them.

"I fare well, lads. As I hope do you."

"Aye, my lord. We had a fine day for the march."

"Why cannot we have two in a row?" asked another. "It will piss rain again tomorrow. We will swim in it."

Ward supposed even the toughest troops preferred a dry march to a wet one.

"It will be fog we swim in," said another.

"My lord, would you join us?" One of the Sabers displayed a jug. Ward had yet to take a swig from these jugs which broke out in plenitude once the sun went down. They supposedly contained very potent rum.

Ward took a seat around the fire. The big lipped jug was immediately put before his face. He braced himself, then took a sip. He need not have worried about spitting it out, for the lukewarm liquid tasted pretty good. Sweet and surprisingly smooth. What he had better worry about was drinking too much and paying for it tomorrow.

A few of the lads he had spoken with before. They were impressed—and flattered—as he recalled their names. That was an ability he had nurtured from the first time he instructed students. He had prided himself that within a week he could put a name with each face in even a class of a couple hundred students.

This was good, just to sit and relax. He knew he should be back in his tent consolidating the day's notes, especially those concerning his interview with Edward. But he needed time to unwind like anyone else.

The jug went around and around. The warmth of the campfire and the warmth in his belly combined to banish the unease that had stayed with him since the short conversation with Bray.

The soldiers started talking about women. None of the lads were married—the army did not allow marriage for any soldier below the rank of sergeant—but most had sweethearts. They spoke tenderly of their lasses. Edith and Meg, Rachel and Bess, Cecily and Kate. Ah, if they were only here on this balmy evening for them to embrace.

The men asked him about his betrothed. No doubt word had gotten around the regiment that he was to marry the most beautiful woman in the kingdom. Ward made to answer and with a start realized he had barely thought of Deborah since he left Penshurst for Windsor

That could not be. She was every man's dream.

Ward told the lads what they wanted to hear about Deborah Lyttleton, that he had not set eyes on a female more lovely in England or in the Western Dominions. Tall, slender, copper haired. In addition she possessed wit and grace and spirit. She was the princess of all the fairy tales. She would make him very happy.

The soldiers sighed their envy, then smiled. They toasted the Earl of Kent and passed around a fresh jug. Ward sipped just a little, though he feigned a gulp.

Ward stayed a bit longer, then thanked the soldiers and excused himself. He slowly trod back to his tent. A few drops of drizzle alighted on his brow.

Deborah, fair Deborah. Why had he not spent every spare moment focused on her? That magnificent specimen was going to be his companion for life. He should miss her as those boys missed their women.

Perhaps he was being too hard on himself. After all, he had barely spent more than twenty hours alone with her since they met. If this damned expedition had not intervened they would know each other much better by now.

And yet...

Anne Hollingsworth. Sweet, lively, full of fun Anne. She had been the one to whom his thoughts drifted these past days. It was on her behalf, not Deborah's, that he made mental notes to recount this or that amusing incident. It was her he wished beside him now, not Deborah Lyttleton.

He shook his head. Don't tell him he was falling for her. Oh man, that could not be. It was just they spent a lot of time together and they could make each other laugh and he lusted her so. It was infatuation, not love.

But if she were here, he would kiss her hard as he could, he knew it. For right now, this moment, he missed her so badly he ached.

He drew in the pleasant odor of wood fire that permeated the camp. And again shook his head.

Well, this was a disconcerting development. He was an even bigger fool than Bray thought if he acted on these impulses. By all the saints, he could not marry the girl. He could almost laugh at the scandal that would result. Peers of the realm did not wed their servants. Even the merchant class did not do that.

Both the King and the Cardinal would be aghast. There was that little matter of improving the royal bloodline, and they sure wouldn't consider Anne a suitable fill in for Deborah. And if he failed to betroth a daughter to the Crown Prince, there went his plans to bring enlightenment to this land and the legacy that would result.

What was the matter with him? Surely he would not jeopardize everything for a little brown haired, brown eyed, overly shapely lass just one generation removed from the peasantry.

He had arrived at his tent. He did not feel like writing up his notes. But he better do it, if for no other reason than to take his thoughts away from Anne. Perhaps it was well he had many weeks ahead before he returned to Penshurst. Plenty of time to let longing for her fade.

When he got back he should immediately dismiss Anne. Send her off with a glowing recommendation, to be sure, and several hundred pounds severance pay. Bray was right he was in danger, but not from any male of the species.

He went into the tent to put both pen and rye whiskey to work.

Chapter 19

**A** s they entered yet another village on the road to Wales, Edward doffed his cap. The inhabitants of this tidy village—weren't all villages tidy in this wearisome England?—cheered. As usual the cheers were restrained.

With more force some shouted "death to the heretics!" and "smite them, my Lords!" and..."hurrah, hurrah, hurrah for the Restorer!"

Despite the drizzle and fog it looked like everyone had turned out to see the Sabers. Criers were being sent ahead to every town, village and hamlet to herald the approach of this famous unit and their holy mission. Crying that their rifles and swords would soon crush rebellion in the far reaches of Wales, rebellion fostered by the same fanatical heretics who had so recently tried to murder the Royal Family.

It irritated rather than enraged Edward that Roger Ward received the most enthusiastic cheers. Why Colonel Wells had instructed the criers to proclaim that the Sabers were accompanied by the "Restorer of the World" Edward did not know. Wells understood that Ward wasn't coming back.

Edward glanced at Ward, several horses behind himself and Dickon. Ward waved his hat high and offered everyone good cheer. The villagers beamed adulation, and the lasses following by Ward's side patted his thigh and smiled seductively. So much for the deterrence of AIDS and a one way trip to the compound in Dorsetshire.

Well, let our Earl of Kent have his final moment in the sun—or the rain, which had plagued the expedition on and off its first five days.

The weather today was the worst yet. At dawn fog had cut visibility to a hundred yards. It was even thicker now, and the drizzle had not diminished. Thank God for the paved highway—his highway—that kept them from traveling through a sea of mud.

The criers had little to say about himself and Dickon, other than they were nobles from Flanders who had overcome rebellions of their own. And who were now generously providing counsel for the campaign. "Praise Lord Emil and Lord Roland" shouted the criers. Emil and Roland, that was almost worth a laugh. Soon, though, other Englishmen would shout "Praise King Edward and Duke Richard".

He was looking forward to getting past this village. His stomach was rumbling and he would order an early halt for lunch. The troops would appreciate that, and also his command to hoist the mess pavilions. Colonel Wells would not; he'd let them go hungry and then have them eat in the rain. Edward marveled that a man so indifferent to the comfort of his men received their devotion.

Just as the vanguard was exiting the village a soldier scattered onlookers as he emerged from the fog at full gallop. The soldier was shouting something. Then his words became clear and Edward wheeled his mount to follow Colonel Wells and others toward the rear of the column. Bray's two thugs had apparently escaped from their cage.

A fury rose in him as he spurred back through the town. He nearly trampled one villager who tarried too long in the street, and Edward cursed him hard. He would curse the soldiers who had guarded the prisoners harder. And the officer of the guard would get his most damnable invective.

How could this happen? He thought these were crack troops. A full squadron should have been more than enough to keep those two beasts caged. He would have the colonel mete out severe punishment. He might even have someone shot if the two—who knew the location of the passage—got away. Which they might in this fog.

But when he arrived at the rear they had already been captured. Soldiers were whacking the wretches with rifle butts, and Wells had to call a stop to the battery. They reluctantly lowered their rifles, and then Edward saw the reason for their reluctance.

On the ground several yards from the open cage a soldier lay face down. Blood as red as his uniform widened in a circle on the wet pavement. Edward didn't have to look twice at the smashed side of the man's head to know he was dead.

"Return them to the cage," ordered Wells. "Truss them. Arms and legs. I don't care if you cut off circulation."

Almost as if another person inside him spoke, Edward shouted "Belay that!" Yet he knew instantly what he was going to do.

"Bring them to the center of the village. Bind only their wrists."

The soldiers hesitated. They had obeyed his orders before, but never when directly contradicting those of their regimental commander.

Instantly he was back in Stoney Strafford, when for a decisive few seconds no one knew quite whom to obey. Where fear and lack of will had cost him a kingdom.

His voice issued like a whip. "You heard me. Bring them!"

With that he turned and cantered toward the center of the fog shrouded village, where he remembered stood several great oaks with sturdy limbs. He did not look back, but his ears strained to hear if anyone followed. Thankfully sounds of compliance rose behind him.

Dickon, his face full of anxiety, came up beside him. "What are you going to do? Flog them? Please don't."

"You'll see."

"Let Wells deal with them. That's his man back there."

"That is our man. Of our army. When the knaves struck at him, they struck at me...and you."

"Ned—"

Edward spurred his horse to get away from his brother. Dickon was a fine man, but he did not have the hardness, nay the cruelty, necessary to rule. Dickon did not have it in him to make example of wrongdoers—or more importantly, to ferret out those behind them. From time to time such was required of all able rulers, no matter how much mercy they showed on other occasions.

The villagers gathered quickly about the mighty oak tree from which Edward ordered two ropes hung. Their cries were anything but restrained now, having learned the two bedraggled heretics had killed a Saber. Though Edward knew the villagers had never seen a hanging—in this England only high treason warranted the death penalty—they cried for stretched necks. He was casting for bigger fish, but if the two didn't implicate Beaufort or Bray, he would oblige.

Dickon's face thrust in front of his.

"You can't do this. We haven't the authority."

His brother spoke lowly, but villagers and soldiers were pressed so close that many could hear.

"I am King. That provides all the authority needed."

"You're not king yet. And that's beside the point. Even the King must follow due process. Put these men back in that cage and let the law of this land settle the matter."

"Did our father observe legal niceties after Tewkesbury? No, he dragged those who had tried to destroy him from sanctuary and chopped off their heads. These two—and Bray—tried to destroy us."

"We know better than our father. They would have died just the same if he'd brought them to court."

The villagers were regarding them curiously, not sure what to make of the words coming from the two strange nobles. Edward ordered the soldiers to push them back, then dropped his own voice to near whisper so that not even the closely standing Wells and Ward could hear.

"Don't publicly oppose me, Dickon. I have to show the men of the Sabers that I will avenge them. You can't argue those two animals don't deserve death."

"Perhaps. But only by verdict in court. Not by lynching to the cheers of a mob."

"If I don't hang them, I appear weak. In front of the Sabers—whose dead comrade that is back there—that I can not afford."

His brother's face set like granite. "I swear, I will not let you hang them like this."

Edward could hardly believe his ears. Had Ned forgotten who was going to be King and who was going to be one of a half dozen dukes? How dare he speak as to what would or would not be permitted.

Rage momentarily blurred Edward's vision. Then he straightened fully, so he stood the usual half head above his brother. His voice resumed its normal volume.

"You want due process, you shall have it. The adjutant will select twelve of the villagers to sit as jury. I will be judge. The colonel will act as prosecutor. If you wish, you may defend the accused."

"I'll have no part of this, Ned."

"Then have no part. But do not intercede."

They had no trouble finding jurors. Edward ordered Beaufort and Bray brought forward to observe. During the wait, Edward was amused to see Ward scribbling notes despite the handicap of misting rain. A pity the man would not be able to chronicle his own end.

It greatly encouraged him that during the last thirty minutes Colonel Wells had not attempted to countermand his orders. This was proof positive that the fealty Wells pledged under moonlight would hold in the cold light of day. The Terror of China was his.

The trial didn't take long. Bray's men admitted they had picked the lock, then struck the soldier. They swore they hadn't meant to kill him. They just wanted to get away from the execution they were sure that awaited them once back in their own time. The soldiers and villagers puzzled over that remark. Edward hurried the testimony forward.

Both did deny—despite Edward's repeated promise of commutation—that either Bray or Beaufort had put them up to it. He didn't believe them. Their loyalty in the face of the dangling ropes only showed how dangerous a hold Lancaster still maintained on its adherents.

Edward tried to keep his distance from the thugs, they smelled so bad. One would have thought all the recent rain would have washed away some of the stink. In the damp air foul odor wafted from Bray too, who surprisingly looked on the proceedings with defiance. With satisfaction he noted Lady Margaret watched dejectedly. The starch was almost out of that crone.

"Jurors, what say you?" No need for deliberation.

They did however make a show of consulting each other. After giving Edward a couple of nervous minutes they pronounced both men guilty of murder.

"What as to the charge of high treason?" The snarl in his voice left no doubt as to what verdict he expected. The jurors took the hint and promptly found them guilty of the capital crime.

Edward turned and faced the two agents of the Tudor usurper. They looked utterly miserable. Bruises inflicted by rifle butts were swelling, drizzle had matted their hair and clothes, and terror that anticipated death by strangulation had crawled onto their faces. He actually felt some sorrow for them. Certainly more than they would have felt upon handing Dickon and himself over to Henry Tudor.

He turned to the regimental adjutant. "I sentence them to death by hanging. You may proceed."

It angered Edward that the major cast eyes to Wells for confirmation. That would change. The colonel nodded and the adjutant had his men place nooses around the necks of the condemned. Everyone fell silent while Father Michael administered confession and absolved sins. Edward imagined these two had committed a mortal sin every day of their lives.

Then they were hoisted up. They began to kick almost immediately and their battered faces contorted. Edward wished someone had thought to put sacks over their heads. His stomach went queasy as their faces purpled and their tongues flicked in and out like a snake's.

About the great oak none of the hardened soldiers paled, but plenty of the villagers did. Mothers dragged children away, and even some of the men took flight. Edward saw an ashen Ward slip away with hand over mouth. He felt like doing the same, but a king of course could not.

Edward was astonished to see Wells' son start to mimic the twitching men. The midget made his face grotesque and danced a ghoulish jig. Wells put a hand on his son's shoulder and little Ted—twenty-six years of age—immediately stopped.

So the likes of this would mate with his daughter? The thought almost revolted him as much as the gruesome spectacle only yards away.

The minutes dragged on and the men would not stop kicking. By now their eyes fairly bulged from the sockets. Some of the villagers begged for the soldiers to shoot them. Edward wanted to give the order, but the men of the Sabers would expect a full course of agony as payment for the life of their comrade. And he must appear able to take this display in front of the regiment he soon hoped to call his own.

After perhaps twenty minutes one wretch stopped struggling, followed a few minutes later by the other. Edward gave thanks. He would almost rather be burned alive than die like that. He found his legs unsteady as he turned to order the advance to continue.

Then he noticed Dickon was nowhere in sight.

"Where is Lord Roland?" he asked Wells.

"I do not see him." Wells turned to his deputy and asked the same question.

The deputy pointed up the road. "The lord set out that way. On foot."

"And no one accompanied him?" Edward's voice rose. He had given specific orders that neither of them was to remain unguarded a moment.

The deputy hastened to say ten soldiers had followed, also on foot.

"Have the men break for mess. You three there, accompany me. But at a distance."

Edward muttered as he remounted. This was getting tiresome, having to soothe Dickon. His brother should realize they were headed toward the era in which Machiavelli actually lived. Rule according to modern concepts of constitutional law did not exist. Any Renaissance prince relying on those concepts would earn ridicule—and a greatly shortened reign.

What befell them fifteen years before should tell Dickon they would stay in power only if rivals regarded them with the respect born of fear. Everyone had to know no one crossed His Majesty. Their good hearted father had pardoned his Lancasteran enemies time after time to find himself as often betrayed. Only when his father replaced pardon with execution did betrayal stop.

The fifteenth century had taught that Lancaster stopped coveting the throne only when dead. And what was Tudor but mutated Lancaster? Henry had but ten years left, and might be content to pass that time in comfortable retirement. His wolf of a son would live until 1547. For a half century ahead this natural killer would bear the grudge of a lost crown as bitterly as had Edward.

It was well Edward would sit on the throne and Dickon merely advise. Dickon would be a disaster as ruler. His soft goodness would lose the throne as surely as it had slipped from the "saintly" Henry VI. But Edward needed Dickon, and not just because his brother was the one person he could completely trust.

The qualities which made their father such a great king had been split between his sons, Edward must admit. He was bestowed with the high intelligence and ruthlessness, while Dickon got the affable nature that won devoted friends. Edward acknowledged he often left people cold. He would use Dickon to charm the lords and commons while he made the hard decisions of state.

Edward did not spur his charger out of the village. Instead he advanced at a trot, which would give his brother more time to cool. He didn't look forward to confronting him. Perhaps he shouldn't have acted so precipitously with Bray's men, even though they had obviously and necessarily deserved death. Damn Dickon, why must he so complicate maters?

Edward further slowed his mount.

**H** is escort informed Richard of approaching riders but he kept on walking. He knew it was Ned coming with apologies and excuses. Which was Ned's usual behavior after throwing a tantrum. Of course, his previous fits had never cost anyone their life.

Richard had to face it, this tantrum thrower was going to be king. Ned could smell the throne now and would go through the passage whether Richard tagged along or not. The threat to stay behind had lost its leverage.

He had to tag along. Ned required restraint and who else on the planet could provide that restraint? The ties of shared danger and survival and blood gave him alone the standing to keep—or try to keep—his brother from acts of evil. Which that back at the village qualified for in spades.

But even if he did moderate his brother's behavior, what happened if he died as written in 1515? Would Ned then populate the kingdom with heads on pikes? He had to stay alive, even if that meant spending all of 1515 confined to a room.

Then Ned was beside him, on foot. "I ask only one thing. Never oppose me in public. I promise you the last word of counsel in all matters, but publicly the Throne must speak with one voice."

"Spare me, Ned."

"So we should openly quarrel? Just what our enemies will want."

"You hang people willy-nilly you'll have plenty of enemies."

"I will allow that I should have remanded them to Wells. Or delayed trial until they could have been put before a proper court in our realm."

"Glad to hear it. And I have your word that is now royal policy?"

"You have my word." His voice took on an edge. "You can put aside the sarcasm."

"Much as you hate the Tudors, they did assure the primacy of law in England. The courts, not the king, handed out justice."

"Surely you remember the excesses of Henry VIII."

"Yes. But at least his murders were judicial. Court procedure was followed, and judges alone passed sentence. And after the Tudors the law grew so strong that no king or prime minister of England could stand against it"

"I assure you—"

"I love you, Ned. There are things I admire about you. And things I fear. I take you at your word, that you will not become a tyrant. If you do, I depart. Oh, I won't come back through the passage and I won't raise rebellion. But I will go to the Continent and never see you again."

His brother groaned softly. "That I could not bear."

"Then rule according to the Magna Carta and common law, and we'll have no problems."

The rain had almost stopped now. Richard thought he saw clearing in the west. Towards Wales. His stomach dipped at the thought of Wales and the passage. They'd be at the passage inside a week.

"We will rule together—like Augustus and Agrippa," said Edward. "You know what they accomplished."

Richard knew of Augustus but not Agrippa. "I would like veto power over any decision to execute subjects."

"You shall have it."

Yeah, until your next rage. "We have responsibility for an entire people. The throne is not a personal vehicle for settling scores."

His brother smiled tightly. "I count on you reminding me of that."

"You can be a great king. Like you said, we have an opportunity to wipe out all the previous mistakes. Let that be your legacy, not people swinging from gallows."

"Together we will be great."

"If you are not—I say again—I leave."

"You will stay, I promise." Ned stopped after several more paces. "Let's return. We are having mess in the village."

Richard shook his head. "For some reason, I'm not hungry. I need to walk some more. Take these fellows with you. No need for them to miss a meal."

"I can't leave you without a guard."

Richard patted the pistol at his side. "I'll be fine. Besides, there are no highwaymen in this England and we're far from Tudor. Take them. I want to be completely alone. I won't get that chance much from now on."

His brother reluctantly acceded. He and the soldiers left.

Richard detected more light in the west. The fog had pulled back considerably. By late afternoon they might even see some sun.

He just didn't know. Perhaps Ned would really try. He knew his brother wanted to rule well. Ned was talented and learned, and he would have the last five hundred years of history—from both worlds—to draw on for guidance as to what worked in government and what did not. If they could guide their future on a course between the other two...

But Richard didn't like that back in the village. His brother had just stood there watching the two men slowly strangle. They said Hitler had done likewise, calmly viewing film of conspirators hung from meat hooks after the failed assassination attempt.

No, that wasn't fair. His brother had more goodness in him than bad. It's just that Ned had never gotten rid of his anger at losing the throne. That anger had festered into something pretty vile over the past fifteen years. The spleen was his dominant organ.

Getting his kingdom back should drain out all the bile. At least that was Richard's great hope. With the bile gone his brother's true nature should return, the generous and kindly nature Richard so fondly remembered from that Christmastide in 1482. Those wonderful days when everyone he loved was still alive.

A patch of blue had broken through near where the perfectly straight road hit the horizon. He took it as a good omen. Now just let him live past 1515.

Chapter 20

**W** ard did not consider himself a mathematician, but he could put two and two together. He must have been blind not to make the calculation sooner.

He sat alone in his tent. As usual in the evening he hunched over his field desk, pen in hand and paper before him, whale oil lamp burning bright. Unlike every other evening since departing Windsor Castle, his hand did not fly over the paper to consolidate the day's notes and impressions. Not that he lacked for them this day.

The first executions of Edward V. But not the last.

Bray was right. Ward was on Edward's shit list and not in lower case letters. How could he have deluded himself?

Two of the four kidnappers were dead, and Edward had as good as condemned Bray when saying Bray deserved the same fate as those who were dragged from sanctuary at Tweeksbury. And who was kidnapper number four?

Ward should have known Edward wanted him dead from the first time their eyes met at Richmond Palace. Edward's eyes that day had not masked anything. Ward, giddy with triumph, had pushed the warning aside. Secure in the favor of the King and Cardinal no harm could come to him.

Unfortunately the writ of Thomas II ran only to the passage. On the other side would run that of Edward V. Once Ward emerged in the fifteenth century Edward would probably string him and Bray from the nearest tree. Maybe Edward wouldn't even wait until the passage; that the expedition remained a hundred miles inside Tom's territory had not prevented the drumhead trial of Simon and Peter and their execution.

Ward dropped the pen and put his head in his hands. What was he going to do?

He could steal out of here under the cover of darkness. But how would Thomas take that? Not kindly, to be sure. Thomas would dismiss Ward's fear of Edward as paranoid delusion and worse, probably view Ward's flight as outright cowardice. As Jeffress warned, the King would instantly revoke all titles and estates. If Tom was wrathful enough Ward could end up in Newgate.

That was assuming he could even get away. He would have to escape on foot as the horses were heavily guarded at night. At dawn Wells would have the whole regiment beating the fields and woods. The Sabers probably had expert trackers, from their experiences fighting guerrillas in China. They'd catch him.

He could appeal to Richard for protection. The younger brother had treated him well enough over the past several days. They actually shared a laugh during interviews. Ward swore the man had forgiven him. But—goddamn the buts—today Ward saw how much Richard's objection mattered when Edward's mind was set.

Ward poured himself a tumbler of rye. He didn't bother with his usual dilution of water. He sipped vigorously.

He cursed. Since he first crossed the passage, he had found himself in one bind after another. Just one step ahead of torture or the executioner or a life sentence. He had been able to slip out of the other jams, but now they had him boxed in. As in the word coffin.

Ward poured more rye.

**A** t breakfast Ward secured Edward's permission to interview Lady Margaret. He had avoided the request previously, mainly because of the agate eyes the pinch faced bitch directed at him whenever close. He'd rather get Edward's deep freeze eyeball treatment. Thankfully she wasn't allowed to eat with them.

Edward agreed without hesitation. He rather seemed amused. Yes, Edward knew full well of Lady Margaret's antipathy toward the Restorer of the World.

Beside Edward had sat Wells' son, Theodore, who promptly pressed palms against his cheeks. So as, Ward supposed, to mimic the hatchet face of Lady Margaret. That did bring a smile to Edward. It didn't to Ward; the midget gave him the creeps. Ward had yet to figure out if Wells' son was retarded or just a sinister little bugger.

Ward had been surprised to see how well Edward treated Theodore. He spoke with him often and they even shared games of darts in the evening. Ward surmised Edward was just trying to get in good with Wells, who obviously adored his stunted—and strange—son. Ward did allow that Edward might feel sympathy for someone deprived of a natural life, as Edward had been deprived his own destiny. But certainly the former rather than the latter made for his primary motivation.

Ward got out of the mess tent as soon as he could. He was hung over—he had drained the bottle of rye whiskey—and his bowels were acting up. He sped for a second time that morning to the latrines. After relieving himself, he headed for Lady Margaret's carriage.

As he approached, the guards around the carriage came to attention. He had liked that before, but now this homage to his standing in the land unsettled him. An ominous reminder that in a week he would have no standing at all.

"As you were."

Lady Margaret was as usual taking breakfast in her carriage. Instead of casting hateful eyes, this morning she just ignored him.

"A fine day awaits, my Lady." His breath formed in the crisp air, but the clouds of yesterday were gone. The sun had edged above the tree line and its rays promised later warmth. Brilliant blue sky covered the world.

She kept her eyes on her food. Her nose however wrinkled as if Ward had brought the latrines with him.

"I was hoping I might interview you this morning." He knew he had to speak carefully, as to not alert the soldiers. He was struggling very hard to remain casual.

She continued to ignore him.

He forced a disarming smile, more for the soldiers than for her. "I made a wager with myself that before the end of this sunlit day near the uplands you would grant me that interview."

Her fork hesitated halfway between the plate and her mouth. Then the fork rose, and she chewed and swallowed her food before replying. Her eyes still kept from his.

"I suppose I should be done with it. Then you promise to trouble me no more?"

"Of course. I am honored—"

"Let me eat in peace. Come back in ten minutes."

"Yes, my Lady. I thank you again."

He received no welcome, shrugged to the soldiers and headed back toward the latrines.

**W** hen he was admitted to her carriage, he immediately noted she wrung her hands. That wasn't a good sign. He was counting on receiving calm, clear-headed, and indeed inspired advice from this woman who had wiggled out of so many desperate situations.

Lady Margaret indicated with a curt nod that she wanted him to sit beside rather than opposite her. He began the sham interview with questions concerning her participation in the plot to enlist Buckingham.

"Take notes," she said softly but tartly. "Think, man, think."

Ward fumbled as he pulled out paper and pen. Of course he should have had them at the ready. He'd better be going through the motions; the guards would certainly report their observations to Wells or Edward. At least with the carriage door closed the guards couldn't hear very well. Once the carriage moved the clatter of horse hooves would completely shield conversation and he and Margaret could drop the fakery.

She droned through her recollection, then Lady Margaret startled him with a compliment. "I appreciate your kindness to Sir Reginald. God will reward you."

He supposed she was sincere. If God wanted to reward him, He could start right now.

While they waited for the carriage to move Ward had a clear view over to the cages on wheels. One cage of course stood empty and in the other a still defiant Bray glared at his guards. Ward had to commend the man's fire. Especially now that Bray knew for sure a noose or axe awaited him.

Finally the carriage started moving. It pulled onto the highway with a rider at each of the rear wheels. Over his shoulder Ward saw one of them looking right down at him. But turning his head toward Lady Margaret would prevent lip reading, and as expected the horses generated enough noise to prevent eavesdropping.

"We can begin," said Lady Margaret.

"I—" He swallowed. "I think I'm going to have to kill Edward. I don't have any strategy yet. I just know I have to do it soon."

Those eyes, those intimidating eyes, slid over to him. Her hands had stopped rubbing. "This could be Edward's work. A trap to implicate me in what he would call treason. He could have promised to spare you in return."

"But he didn't."

A malicious laugh. "No, why should he? We are both firmly in his clutches."

"He's going to kill me, you, Bray, every Tudor he can put his hands on."

"I believe 'me' is your operative word."

He wanted to protest otherwise. But a fortnight ago, before his appointment as Royal Historian, he hadn't wasted much thought on the looming fate of the Tudors.

"Self preservation is a great motivator."

She regarded him grimly. "Why then did you come through the passage in the first place?"

"Someone else recently asked me the same. Lady Margaret, I know I have to kill Edward. What do you recommend as the best way? Especially for me to get out of it alive."

"If only you had done this earlier. You had so much opportunity."

He didn't need reproach now. He needed a plan.

Looking straight ahead she said, "You have to kill them both, you know."

"What?"

"I once—before your accursed arrival—loved Richard and Edward as if they were kinfolk. I will carry the ache of their loss to my grave. But both must die."

"Why Richard? He isn't a rabid dog like his brother."

"He would become one once you killed Edward. You see how close they are."

"I figure once I do Edward in, the worlds should reverse. But I don't know how many of these soldiers will still be around. I could get a hundred bullets in me."

"Don't you think anything through? And keep writing. Killing Edward will not force the reversal. I can assure you that Cardinal Jeffress has instructed Wells to put Richard, willingly or unwillingly, on the throne if Edward should happen to die. If necessary Richard will be a figurehead while Wells wields the power. From Jeffress' standpoint all that is important is that my dynasty falls and England does not join the Reformation."

Ward grimaced. No, he hadn't considered that angle. But the old bitch was probably right. Either brother would do in a pinch. "Then we lose. I'll be lucky to kill one before I'm stopped. I can't get both."

"Have you devised even the rudiment of a plan?"

"I have considered grabbing a guard's rifle while Edward sleeps. I could do it when coming back from a late night visit to the latrine. Burst into his tent, shoot and hope I could get away in the darkness."

"That has possibilities. Especially since the Princes share a tent. But more than one guard is stationed about their tent. Are you quite sure you could wrest a rifle from one of those strapping lads, even with the element of surprise, before the others could intervene?"

"No. Not at all."

She sighed. "So I am supposed to find a remedy?"

"You had better."

"Let us see. Keep writing! The odds would greatly improve if you could act out of sight of the guards. And where a weapon is available for seizure. You of course cannot carry one past them."

"Well, both the princes have pistols. If I could get into their tent—"

She waved her hand. "Mess would be your best chance."

"I don't follow."

"If you invade the tent as they sleep, you would have to grope in darkness to find their weapons. An impossible task before they woke or the guards came in. But at officers' mess their pistols are right at their sides."

He shook his head. "And they are awake. The officers are too, each with their own gun."

"This is how I see it," said Lady Margaret. "Be one of the last, but not the last, to take a seat. Pass behind Edward. As you pass lift his pistol from its holster. Shoot him in the head, then Richard."

"That's crazy. Right in front of everyone?"

"Hear me out. I assume they sit side by side."

"Yes." Edward sat at the head of the table, Richard the first seat on his right, Wells or his son on the left.

He shuddered. If he fumbled just a little, Wells would be on him like a tiger. No, this was too dangerous.

"If I am not mistaken," said Margaret, "these holsters do not have safety straps. You should be able to pull the pistol free with ease."

"Maybe," he said in a near whisper.

"This will succeed if you act calmly without hesitation."

Ward shuddered again.

She looked at him disgustedly.

"Did you expect they would hand you their pistols and sit unmoving while you shoot them?"

Ward started shaking. Even his teeth chattered.

"If this is your response, we are lost. I would do better sending a child."

He was shaking because Lady Margaret's plan was not so bad. In the mess tent no one would expect anything. It could work, and should work, and in that case he had no excuse not to proceed except for cowardice.

"I can do it," he croaked.

"You stink of fear."

"I'm sure I do. But when the time comes, I'll do it."

"You are allowed one attempt."

"I'm dead if I don't attempt. That will give me all the courage I need."

Good words, but he was still shaking.

"Concentrate only on killing Edward and Richard. The soldiers cannot harm you."

"And why is that?"

"How many cavalry soldiers did you see in the streets of Hampstead before the reversal?"

"None."

"And you will not see any after this one. For those alive in your world will be elsewhere, and those not alive will simply disappear."

That made him feel a little better.

He took a deep breath. "When then? Evening mess? It'll be close to dark then."

"Midday mess. Your nerve is already nearly gone. And the longer you wait, it gives Edward more time to anticipate you. As he must, the closer we come to the wood in Pembrokeshire."

She was right. A millennium would pass between now and evening. Only a century separated him from noon.

"All right."

"Have you fired a pistol in this world...or the other?"

"In this one. I was given pistols and rifles among the gifts from fathers shopping their daughters. I fired both at Penshurst."

One afternoon he and a couple of servants had enthusiastically shot up some trees.

"And your aim is good at six inches?"

He returned her tight smile. "Never miss."

"For our lives...and all the lives ahead, do not miss. Do not fail."

"Onward to the sunlit uplands, no?"

"Since you are now in any case deprived of Penshurst and Miss Lyttleton, I believe you can at last fairly evaluate the two worlds. What is your verdict, Restorer?"

"It's a tie."

"Come now."

"Well, by noon we'll know in which one we finish."

"God be with you, Roger Ward."

He could use God on his side and a steady hand more. Then, despite all his anxiety, it struck him that he had indeed solved the mystery of the Princes. It wasn't Richard III or Buckingham or even Henry VII who disposed of the Plantagenet boys. It would be him.

**A** fter the interview he returned to his horse. As he moved up the column to his usual position, he let himself drink in the beauty of the morning. It might be his last one.

Sunshine had reclaimed the land. It lit the hills, where trees were ablaze with autumn color. It lit the crimson uniforms. It lit the faces of the men, who joshed and traded stories as they rode. Sunlight even fell on Ward, who knew within hours he would either lose his life or lose his earldom.

Of course it had been too good to remain true, to spend the rest of his life filthy rich and the toast of a kingdom. If he did get back to his own time, would he ever visit Penshurst? How eerie it would be to walk over those grounds. Would he faintly hear Anthony, Luke, William...or the sweet laughter of Anne?

Anne. He supposed he did love her, or at least cherished her. But she was irrevocably gone, just like Penshurst and the rest of the earldom. Already she was an apparition. The rest of his days—if he had any—she would hover at the edge of his reality like that fog yesterday.

In the end would he have chosen her over Deborah, and all that marrying Deborah would have secured? Two days ago he had been certain he would banish Anne; this morning he did not know. It was a silver lining—as if there were any silver in the black cloud that waited at noon—that the choice was now moot.

The men in the company behind him started singing. They lifted their voices and the jaunty lyrics they belted out told of quarts of ale consumed and lasses seduced while on campaign in lower China. And heathen slain in righteous battle.

That's what soon lay ahead. Righteous battle. In which he would either slay or be slain.

**A** s Ward entered the officers' mess, he avoided throwing up. He also managed not to hyperventilate as the mantra "stoop, pull, shoot" ran staccato in his head. Instead he tried to make himself small as he slowly followed officers toward the right side of the table.

Edward and Richard had already taken seats, as had Colonel Wells and his detestable little son. All were smiling, even Edward, as they conversed. They were utterly relaxed. Ward saw both of Edward's hands on the table, the right hand providentially holding a mug.

Three, then two paces separated him from Edward. The holster and pistol came into view. He prayed to the god in which he half believed that the pistol contained a chambered round. Knowing the viscous nature of the man, Ward suspected it did. In a terrible instant he would find out.

One pace, then he was in position. No one was watching him. A final prayer, and he stooped. His hand glided to the pistol. The pistol came out. The pistol swung up toward Edward's head. Edward had begun to turn toward him, but much too late. Ward saw Richard starting to rise, again too late.

Richard got out a half cry before Ward pulled the trigger. The cry completed because no roar—or recoil—came from the gun. The trigger clicked again as Richard hurtled toward Ward. No shot followed.

Then Richard slammed into him from one side, and Wells from the other. Ward hurtled to the ground. The two men quickly pinned his arms as pandemonium reigned in the tent. His view of the tent top was rapidly replaced by five or six, then probably twenty rifle and pistol barrels.

Above the wild tumult Ward made out a voice shouting "Don't kill him. I need him alive." The voice of Edward Plantagenet.

Then Edward's face replaced the gun barrels. Surprisingly wrath did not distort the handsome face; rather he gazed down upon Ward in calm triumph.

"Pawn from the beginning, pawn to the end."

Ward stared dumbly back. His only coherent thought was to wonder why the pistol hadn't fired.

"What's going on, Ned?" asked Richard, whose fingers dug into Ward's arm. "It's almost like you expected this."

"You will see. Lift him."

They roughly hauled Ward to his feet. The tent was full of men regarding him with murderous rage. Ward's legs sagged as he realized that within seconds they could be dragging him toward a tree.

Edward called out a strange command: "Theodore, come forward."

Soldiers parted and Wells' son appeared. The midget beamed.

"Let everyone hear the words of the plotters," said Edward.

Ward's skin tingled as an excellent imitation of Lady Margaret's voice issued from the midget. "This is how I see it. Be one of the last, but not the last, to take a seat. Pass behind Edward. As you pass lift his pistol from its holster. Shoot him in the head, then Richard."

Beside him Richard gasped.

Then the midget mimicked Ward's voice. "That's crazy. Right in front of everyone?"

Her voice. "Hear me out. I assume they sit side by side."

His. "Yes."

Hers. "If I am not mistaken, these holsters do not have safety straps. You should be able to pull the pistol free with ease."

His. "Maybe"

Hers. "This will succeed if you act calmly without hesitation."

The midget then spit into Ward's face.

Edward preened. "Did you really think a Beaufort could outwit a Plantagenet?"

In response Ward could only mumble "How?"

Richard seconded the query.

"Dickon, I knew she could not be trusted. I had a compartment made behind the back seat of her carriage. Where Theodore could hide and hear whatever treason she devised. I knew the good Earl would eventually interview her and I strongly suspected at that time she would urge our assassination. I admit I was not sure if the Earl would accept the task. But when Theodore informed me of this morning's conversation, I merely removed all the bullets from my pistol and awaited events."

"You took a hell of a chance. What if this piece of shit had gone for my pistol instead of yours?"

"He is an obedient dog. He does whatever his current master says."

Richard brought his enraged face right into Ward's. "You bloody bastard. That's twice you've tried to finish us. You're the one finished now."

"I—I had to. He was going to kill me."

"You're insane. That's what Lady Margaret put in your head?"

"He's going to kill Bray and me soon as we get—"

"Silence!" cried Edward. "Speak more and your tongue will be cut out. You stupid man, I can do you no ill without evidence." Edward glanced at his brother. "That will be the rule in my land. Though I personally detest you, you would have returned to your estates before the New Year rings in."

Ward wanted to scream his objection but he also wanted to retain his tongue.

"You, Roger of Ward, have committed treason against our royal persons. And when you return to my realm, you will suffer the full penalty for treason. In my England you hold no title and therefore are considered a commoner. Yes, my good Roger, that penalty."

Ward fainted.

Chapter 21

**I** t was almost dark. She had held her water all through the long terrible afternoon. Just a few more minutes and she would lift her dress, crouch over the stinking bucket and relieve herself. The urgency to answer that need superseded her other needs, those of relieving hunger, humiliation, and fear.

Sir Reginald had anticipated her need, and he stared out the opposite side of the cage they shared. But no matter how carefully she urinated he would hear the splatter. And what of later, certainly by morning, when she must move her bowels? Then the sound and stink would be much worse.

Soldiers passing in the twilight stared malevolently into the cage. She hoped they too would have the decency to turn their backs when she mounted the bucket. If any decency were left in these red creatures of Satan, the ones who had cursed and spit on her much of the afternoon.

Finally she crabbed onto the bucket. As her bladder mercifully emptied, a soldier came near—with a torch. He laughed. Several of his comrades quickly gathered to join in observation and mirth. It stopped when an officer ordered them away.

When finished she turned toward Bray. "Do you think they will feed us tonight?" She had not a bite since morning.

"I doubt it, my Lady." His breath labored with the answer.

She welcomed darkness for another reason; she did not have to look upon Sir Reginald. Foul and inexcusable treatment had broken the health of this previously robust man, whose energy had belied his sixty years. Whatever deprivations she experienced for an afternoon, Bray had known them every day for three months.

Shortly she heard Sir Reginald snoring. Her heart wrenched to see him curled under a blanket on filthy straw. How many more days could he last? That is, if Edward did not execute him first

She moaned. Other executions would not be far behind. Death frightened her, but the real terror lay in the certainty that now her son, grandsons, granddaughters, would all perish. Edward's proposal at the manor house, their sterilization in guise of banishment to abbeys and convents, did not seem so hideous now.

She no longer bothered to pray for deliverance. She had not prayed since they left Windsor Castle. She would not pray in the few days or weeks left to her. God had forsaken her and her line. If this was the world He wanted, she wanted no truck with Him.

A voice whispered. "Lady Margaret."

For an instant hope surged as she thought God addressed her. The insane moment passed as she realized it was only Ward calling from the other cage. Fury replaced the hope. She did not answer.

"Lady Margaret," he repeated.

Why had he needed to consult her? Why exchange even one word? He would have succeeded if he had just acted. His fatal indecision had cost Tudor its last chance.

"I'm sorry," he went on. "If you only knew how sorry."

Oh, yes, she imagined he was. She had never witnessed a traitor's execution. Mercifully her son rarely imposed it. Even hearing second hand of the ordeal was enough to turn her stomach.

Before an entertained multitude they would first castrate Ward. They would then hang him within an inch of death. Next they would lay him out, carve an X on his belly, and yard by yard pull out his intestines. The guts they would put into a fire while Ward screamed and screamed and screamed. Finally they would chop off his head and divide his torso into four pieces.

Once, near the end of such an execution, the victim was asked if he cared for some wine. He declined, saying he had nowhere left to put it. Margaret doubted Ward would utter a memorable line of any sort.

She could not maintain rage at the man. She couldn't even summon disgust as she remembered his behavior yesterday when they tossed him into the cage. While on his knees and with hands clasped Ward had begged shamelessly for Edward to commute his sentence.

Edward had looked on disdainfully and she had not detected a shred of sympathy in Richard either. Both brothers appeared determined to strike down Ward. And all their enemies.

Finally she answered. "There is more than enough sorrow—and foolishness—to go around. My son should never have sent you, and I should have never spared the Princes."

"I should have used a knife. I could have cut both throats in a second."

"We will never know."

"Yeah." She had never heard such a forlorn voice.

She quivered, envisioning entrails in a fire. "Appeal again to Edward. This time, with dignity." Yesterday Ward had succumbed to his looming execution, but he was not a coward. He had resolutely tried to kill the Princes in a tent full of armed men. That courage might mean something to Edward.

"His mind seems set."

"Act like a peer, he may treat you like one."

"Funny how now the axe looks like a good deal."

As a countess, that would indeed be her deal. Far better of course than the other, but still gruesome. Still a mutilation of her body.

Ward laughed bitterly. "I would gladly go back go my teaching, no questions asked. I was doing something useful. Only it wasn't grand enough."

"Ah, where would mankind be without seeking grandness? I don't regret what I reached for—only the failing."

They fell silent and she began to feel the evening chill. She reached for the thin blanket they had provided.

"Five days to the passage, no?" she asked. Tomorrow they should cross the Severn and a day later enter Wales.

"Five and a half with the disruption we forced this afternoon."

"You should have killed them back at Windsor. Could you not see you were doomed?"

More silence. She would berate him no more. It was done. God had decided irrevocably. He had gambled with Lancaster, seen what it had wrought, and judged the cost was higher than the promise. He would return the world to His originally intended path. What was an old woman's lament in the scope of such weighty matters?

"Roger Ward."

"Yes?"

"If you were God, would you send me to Heaven or to Hell?"

Silence. She thought he was ignoring her foolish question, then he laughed. "If I were God, I would let you live forever. You're already five hundred plus years old."

"Where would you send me?" Despite herself, urgency filled her voice.

"It would be a difficult decision."

"I have honored God all my life. Would He cast me into the depths?"

"I'd say you'll get off with a term in Purgatory. As will I, if His Lordship is in a particularly good mood that day. Lady Margaret, we're going to find this stuff out soon enough. Let's drop the discussion."

She was afraid and getting more afraid. Her faith and sense of destiny had held off fear when previously facing mortal danger. Now with both shattered she was naked before the great clawed beast of death.

Margaret knelt on the insect infested straw and prayed vehemently for her soul.

**A** s Edward rode slowly toward the cages, the gray sky of the morning did not impinge on his fine spirits. Fifteen years had passed since he last enjoyed this light a heart. Back then a life of unlimited opportunity lay before him, and at last it did again.

He knew he should stay away from the cages. For two days he had resisted the temptation; a king had to show dignity. Yet today he could not resist taunting Beaufort, to apply salt to the fatal wound.

The soldiers around the cages cheered as he drew near and he smiled in appreciation. They were almost his. A month from now, after a successful campaign, he would knight every man in the regiment and rename it the Plantagenet Sabers. With Wells also created a Duke, that would cement their absolute loyalty.

The clouds above hung low and the chill in the air penetrated. Yet he could not have felt merrier. After so many years of gloom, when every day tasted like ash, now he would feast. In three days he would be home, back among his people. Where he and Dickon would rule and leave a legacy of grandeur unmatched.

About him rose the hills of the Wales Marches. His throat worked. He had not returned to the Marches all through the years of exile. He had been so happy at Ludlow, in his court as Prince of Wales and under the tutelage of Uncle Anthony. Before the other uncle worked his evil. Now he would be happy again.

His nose wrinkled as he eased his mount close to the cage occupied by Beaufort and Bray. Beaufort looked like hell even in the dull gray light. She sat slumped in the middle of the cage, head hung low. Bray lay prone on his face. A rising and falling chest told he still lived. He supposed he should order their rations increased, but that could wait a few minutes.

Edward brought his horse right up to the bars. "The pride of Tudor is broken at last."

She flicked an eye at him, then shifted to present her back.

"I have decided you will go to the block last among your brood. You who created them can watch their destruction. And after your turn, Tudor heads will grace spikes the length of Traitors' Gate."

No answer. No matter. On another day her turned back would have stirred him to fury. This was a good sign that he could take the insult so mildly. A cool head under provocation defined a capable leader.

Of course he would not mind having her yanked from the cage and beheaded with an officer's sword. An unsharpened one that would require a half dozen strokes to finish the job. The hag that had caused him so much agony should not die easily.

No, no. He was beyond that. And Dickon would not tolerate it.

Edward was mildly surprised that Dickon did not object to caging Beaufort. Dickon had certainly put up objection to so housing Bray and his cut-throats. He acquiesced only when Wells said security demanded it.

The shock of the attack had left Dickon strangely subdued. Dickon said little these past couple of days beyond muttering about the perfidy of Beaufort. Edward knew his brother was having difficulty comprehending her blood lust. How could the woman who saved them from their uncle and tried to save them from her son urge their death? Edward had always known Beaufort and her kin would kill anyone in their way, and without looking back. However painfully, at last Dickon realized that too.

As they rose this morning Dickon had embraced him. And he hugged eagerly back. So close they had come to dying in the mess tent. But thanks to his vigilance the Tudor witch had failed, the long struggle between York and Lancaster was over, and he and Dickon would grow old together in glory.

"Your Majesty."

The voice jolted Edward from his reverie. With a scowl he turned toward the cage that held Roger Ward. The Restorer of the World looked somewhat worse for wear after two days of residency behind the bars.

"Your Majesty, please hear me."

The man was bowing. What was this?

"What say you, traitor?"

"Your Majesty—Edward the Fifth, the true King of England—I request you grant me a quick axe for my execution."

Edward stared at the filth encrusted man. He was tempted to bark a laugh and ride away. But Ward had addressed him properly, even if he did so under duress. Yet Edward had no doubt that Ward did believe what he said, that he bowed to the true king.

This was certainly not the pleading wretch of before. Though certainly still gripped by terror, Ward had found enough fortitude to ask respectably for a kinder fate. He was carrying himself like a noble of the realm.

Edward considered the request. The man was after all just small fry, used as cat's paw by both sides. An academician way in over his head. Edward had what he wanted, his throne back and Tudor under his boot. And if not for Ward setting this chain of events in motion, Edward would remain condemned to live out a banal life in twenty-first century London. He supposed he owed Ward much.

However he could not appear too generous. He would lose the respect of the troops if he pardoned the man who tried to murder him. The dread must remain. Some penalty must be paid.

"I will do you one better, my Earl of Kent. Of the traitor's punishment you will suffer only the first part—castration. Before and after that you will carry out King Thomas's charge, that of chronicling my Restoration. You will be allowed to return through the passage."

Ward almost broke down thanking him. Don't lose your dignity again, Edward thought. Show that you are worthy of my mercy.

Ward did compose himself. Controlling his voice, Ward more eloquently expressed his profound gratitude. He then began to annoy Edward by asking commutation be extended to Beaufort and Bray.

"It would begin your reign on such a good note. All would speak well of your farsighted mercy, and it will go into my chronicles as well. It would—"

"Hold your tongue. Lest I change my mind."

The man shut up.

No, Bray and Beaufort would not escape their fates. And Ward should ponder his own fate back in the other realm. Try as the good Earl might, there was one person from whom he could not hide his loss of manhood. Beautiful Deborah would learn of it quite quickly after the wedding. Would she remain married to a gelding, with no prospect of bearing heirs? Certainly not. She would demand and get an annulment.

Swiftly all England would learn. Roger, the eunuch earl. No one would marry him and he would be the laughing stock of the land. A very satisfying punishment.

Enough of the stink of these cages and their occupants. He turned his mount and saw Dickon on his horse, ten paces away. He hadn't heard him come up. Edward smiled at his brother.

Dickon nodded, then moved silently toward the cages.

**R** ichard watched his brother turn. Ned's face lit up as he saw him. Ned was such an appealing man when he smiled. But the smiles never lasted. The gloom thrust away, the gloom returned.

Richard nodded and edged his mount closer to the wretched trio of Reginald Bray, Lady Margaret and the man who he should let suffer castration. Richard would not have minded seeing the operation performed without anesthesia, as it must in the fifteenth century.

He moved right up to Ward's cage. The stench stuck him hard. This man needed to be dragged through a steam until clean.

Ward was watching him curiously—and warily. As Ward should.

Richard put all the venom he could into his voice. "You couldn't leave it alone, could you?"

"Your Highness—"

"You could not leave it alone." He glared at the man responsible for this tragedy.

Ned called to him. "Forget him. He is nothing. We should be to mess."

Richard pulled out his pistol and aimed it between Ward's eyes, eyes that suddenly ballooned.

"Dickon, I have commuted his sentence."

"Indeed?"

His brother moved closer. "If you must, at least wait until the other side of the passage."

To his credit Ward neither dodged nor whimpered. He just stared back in resignation. Yes, Ward knew how much he deserved the bullet.

Richard was aware of soldiers gathering. Their murmur grew and he heard voices applauding the imminent shooting of Ward. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wells and his son appear, but he kept his focus on Ward.

Then Ward spoke, his voice surprisingly steady. "I guess you're going to kill me. But I had no idea what I was stirring up. I am sorry, sorry for it all."

Richard locked eyes with the misplaced—or perhaps perfectly placed—history professor. The only person here born and bred in the other world. Even if Ward didn't want to admit it, he belonged to that world as did Richard. In a perverse way, Ward was his colleague.

"I knew him when he was thoroughly decent," said Richard. He then gestured toward the other cage. "But she—and the others—they ruined him. Ruined he who would have been the best of all our kings. Damn you Margaret Beaufort, damn you all."

"Dickon." His brother was speaking from very close now. "Holster the pistol. That is a royal command."

Yes, they had turned his dear brother into something even worse than themselves. England could not afford him, the world could not afford him.

"Oh, Ned." Richard moved the pistol. To his brother's face. Which blew apart when he pulled the trigger.

Recoil brought the pistol above his head. Through white smoke, he saw the headless body fly from the horse. The horse bolted.

Then a forever silence reigned. For an instant he thought the other world had returned. But the cages and the soldiers remained.

The stunned soldiers began to react. With rifles brandished they moved toward him.

"Hold!" screamed Colonel Wells. "Death to any man who harms Lord Roland! Simmons, Turner, disarm the Lord."

The two closest soldiers stepped toward Richard. Richard put the pistol in his mouth.

"Hold!" Wells cried again.

Everyone stood as statues. Richard looked over at Wells and for the first time he saw the man wearing an expression of fright. Beside Wells his son put two fingers in his mouth to mimic Richard.

Oh Mother of God, what did he do now? He had known his present posture was a possibility, but now he was stuck on the reality of it.

Margaret Beaufort let him know her opinion. "Richard, you must. It is the only deliverance."

The colonel ventured his two pence. "Lord Roland—Richard, Duke of York—you will now be king. I swear my fealty and that of this regiment to you. Let us take you to your realm. Put away your weapon. I understand why you killed him and I approve."

Richard almost yanked the pistol from his mouth and shot Wells. But that would solve nothing.

Lady Margaret again. "Do it, Richard. For all men, for all time."

"Riddle her if she speaks again!" Wells had his own pistol out.

One of the regimental priests had come up. It was Father Michael. "He who takes his own life suffers eternal damnation," he warned in a truly ominous tone. But the green sod probably wouldn't mind if Richard sent himself to Hell.

Richard turned toward Ward. Ward looked absolutely aghast. He found Ward's eyes and asked through his own that Ward decide.

The colonel immediately picked up on it and aimed at Ward. "You say a word, even open your mouth, your head is gone too. Now Your Majesty, put away the pistol. A wondrous life is ahead of you. You will be a fine king. Do not throw it away because of momentary grief."

Momentary? He would miss Ned horribly forever however long he lived. And the cruelest part was that Ned's death, his murder, had apparently made no difference.

That Wells and his Sabers still existed meant England never joined the Reformation, the Counter-Reformation had triumphed, and the history documented in the Chronicles of Saint Jonathan proceeded without pause. It meant that he, Richard, would be only a tool of those who wanted this diseased world to endure. Cardinal Jeffress and his ilk would control five hundred years of history from front to back.

Richard also knew in his bones that no matter how he twisted and turned he would die on that appointed day in 1515. And before that day arrived he would sire two sons. The second son many years hence would sire a boy named Robert, who the world in a terrible time would know as the Burner.

In the cold morning air he was sweating. His arm was beginning to tremble from the enormous weight of the pistol. All eyes were upon him, but his eyes were fixed only upon Ward. His only colleague.

With an agonized expression Ward gazed back at him. Ward nodded.

"No!" screamed Wells.

Richard pulled the trigger.

Chapter 22

**W** ard beat Lady Margaret to Edward's pistol, even though she was closer to the body. Fortunately she was old and arthritic. With one hand he pulled the gun from the holster and with the other he sent her tumbling. Reginald Bray on all fours was rapidly approaching, but Bray stopped when Ward swung the barrel in his direction.

Only then, with everyone motionless yet breathing hard, did he accept that the reversal had really occurred. And that once again he had escaped with his life.

The soldiers and their mounts were gone, as were the cages. Only he and his two live adversaries remained—along with two headless bodies. The encampment had completely disappeared. Vanished also was the royal highway built in the time of Edward the Fifth.

They were situated near much denser woods—secondary growth he supposed—and adjacent to the woods ran ragged heath. But beyond the heath he glimpsed the roofs of houses and the tops of telephone poles.

Partly cloudy sky had replaced the solid gray. And the temperature had risen at least fifteen degrees. He welcomed both.

Before him Bray still crouched on all fours, ready like a dog to strike.

"Mayhap it is not loaded," snarled Bray.

"Or does not even work in this world," chimed in Lady Margaret

"Doesn't matter. You're both so frail I could beat you to death with the butt." But Ward could tell by the weight it was loaded. These pistols carried four large caliber bullets.

Margaret got to her feet.

Ward waved the pistol. "Keep your distance."

He gave infinite thanks he had got to the gun first. She would have shot him, he had no doubt. As would have Bray.

"Do not worry, my earl of nothing now. I only want distance between me and you."

"You get back too," he said to the grizzled man whose eyes continued to ooze defiance. After Bray accommodated, Ward knelt to secure the pistol that Richard still gripped. He could not pry it loose with one hand and he wasn't about to try with two.

He directed his two—what, prisoners?—to move closer together. Then he began to worry, not about them, but whether someone would stumble upon this mayhem. Those houses were only a couple hundred yards away. How would he explain the two bodies and he holding the gun?

"We have to get moving," he said.

"We?" Margaret's face was set as hard as Bray's.

He glanced at the rooftops. It looked like one had a dormer. Right now someone could be staring out.

"Get into the woods. Or I'll fire and take my chances."

"What about the Princes?"

"I'll drag their bodies in."

They reluctantly complied. He had them sit back to back with arms interlocked. Ward then proceeded with the grim task of pulling the torsos in among the trees. Each body left a trail of shiny red.

"We need food and water," said Margaret.

Ward scowled. "No words for Richard or Edward? Do you even mind they're gone? No, I guess it's a relief."

"They were as my children. I grieve for them, but I will never show that sorrow to you."

Ward swallowed. He grieved for them too. Especially Richard. Wells had been right, Richard would have been a fine king.

But sorrow would have to wait. He wasn't out of the woods either literally or figuratively. For a moment he actually considered killing them both. It would be the only way to assure that Tudor agents didn't come after him.

Yet Henry still lived, and if Bray and his mother didn't return, agents would come anyway to find out what happened. Henry Seven would try to hunt Ward down, and if he failed, Henry Eight would eagerly continue the search.

"I have a proposition for the Tudors," he said. "You stay on your side of the passage, and I'll stay on mine."

Lady Margaret opened her mouth, but Bray spoke first.

"Those are the first wise words I have heard from you."

"They are most wise," said Margaret.

"I want you both to swear you will tell Henry I am dead. Your son cannot be tempted to send anyone else through the passage."

"I am the last person you need remind," said Margaret.

"What about you, Sir Reginald? You saw what a mess it caused."

Bray nodded grimly. "We should not have come at all."

"Swear a holy oath I will be left alone. You can free your right hands while you do so."

They did. Ward didn't detect much beyond perfunctory mouthing of words. But it would have to do. He wasn't going to kill them unless they tried to take the gun away.

He noticed no one had mentioned Jeffress. Right now Donald Jeffress was back in that nursing home—if not already dead from the shock of discovering himself again paralyzed. The ex-cardinal made for the one person the Tudors would not want around. Jeffress would certainly try for another reversal. He would find someone else to send through the passage, this time perhaps with the intent to assassinate Henry or his son Harry.

Lady Margaret had to be thinking along the same lines. Ward bet a preemptive killing would occur within weeks. The silent codicil to their agreement hung in the air.

"Then I guess we part. You can get up."

Margaret helped Bray to his feet. The gaunt man with the gray pallor stood somewhat unsteadily. Ward was surprised Bray could stand at all, considering what he had endured. But perhaps they made people tougher in Olde England.

Pint-sized Margaret looked up at Ward. "If you were really wise, you would kill us both. Then you would be totally safe."

Bray gasped. "My Lady—"

"He will not shoot. But he should."

Ward smiled tightly. "No wonder you always win. I feel for anyone who's ever locked horns with you."

"You did, Restorer of the World. And lived. But remember on your life, to not tell the tale."

Ward waved the pistol. "Get."

They hobbled away into the woods. He watched until they merged into the trunks about fifty yards distant.

He slumped against a tree. The adrenaline rush was gone, and he wanted to crumple into sleep.

Of course he couldn't. He had to get moving. Hikers or just kids nosing around could come traipsing through the woods. He could not be seen in the vicinity of two headless bodies. He could still do that life term in a British prison.

Ward gazed down upon the two princes. His heart ached. Such a waste; they could have given England so much if allowed to rule when they were supposed to rule. Now their destinies had been taken again from them, this time permanently.

He wished he could bury them. But he had no shovel. And no time even if he did. He had to get out of here.

Whoever stumbled upon this scene would think it a murder-suicide. No, Christ, they'd see from the blood trail that a third party had dragged them into the woods. The authorities would be launching a double homicide investigation. The lower jaw remained in both men, so dental records could identify them. And link back to their snatching three months ago.

What would the inspectors make of their strange garb? And that gun, he was sure no model existed like that. Ward knew he better not be caught with a like one. He'd bury it, but only after he was certain Bray and Lady Margaret had not doubled back for an ambush.

He had to get his ass out of here.

The Princes kept him rooted moments more. He didn't want to leave. He had spent much of his adult life in passionate search of what happened to these two lads. When he left this spot, that life would be gone. What would replace it? That thought frightened him almost more than prospect of a prison term.

But whatever lay ahead he must also consider that these past tumultuous months he had won a great victory. He alone of mankind had ferreted out the fate of the Princes. He alone had uncovered the bold conspiracy of Margaret Beaufort that settled the Wars of the Roses. He had not failed. Far from it.

A glimmer of light reflected from Edward's hand. From a ring. From the era of the Plantagenets. That he did not want authorities to ruminate over.

Ward felt like a battlefield scavenger as he knelt over Edward, then Richard, and removed three rings. All gold. All that was left now of Plantagenet.

"Good bye, fellows. Be at peace."

Ward hurried away, keeping just inside the tree line. He watched for Bray and Beaufort, but saw nothing. After about twenty minutes he stopped, short of breath, and buried the pistol.

He would try to remember the location. Perhaps in a couple years he could retrieve it.

Ward returned to shadowing the tree line. Five minutes later he saw a shining object in the open sky that looked like the sign of the cross. He gaped, then realized it was only an airliner.

He shook his head. Time to go home. And Margaret Beaufort not withstanding, to someday tell his tale.

Ward hurried on.

Epilogue

All Saints' Day, 1498

Margaret caught Sir Reginald as they emerged from the passage. He had stumbled several times since leaving the Swain's house; it was obvious he had still not regained full strength even after a week of recuperation. Fortunately on both sides of time the weather was cooperating with mildness and no rain.

About them in the woods leaves fluttered downward. Margaret knelt and began to pray. Bray also fell on his knees.

Margaret gave thanks for the deliverance of Tudor and England and the world. She asked God to forgive her part in the death of the Princes and pleaded He receive them into His kingdom. She even prayed for the soul of Roger Ward.

They rose. The day was young. Even a weakened Sir Reginald should be able to make the three miles to Haverfordwest before nightfall. Another couple of days for him to rest, then onto London by boat.

As they walked through the woods Margaret said, "I know you serve the King first. But you must keep your oath and tell him Ward is gone."

"I have never lied to the King."

"You will not lie."

Bray eyed her. "You have something afoot?"

"Nay. But did he not perish with the other world?"

"My Lady—"

"Edward killed your two bully-boys. Richard killed Edward, then himself, and Ward vanished when the worlds reversed. That is what you will tell Henry, and you will speak the truth."

"Aye...I suppose."

"That is what we both tell the King, and it ends the matter."

"What about the dog of a cardinal?"

"You leave that to me."

Jeffress was already dead. While Bray recuperated, she had placed telephone calls that moved men and money to send Satan's child back to his master.

To really tie up loose ends, she should have arranged the same for Ward. But there was her holy oath...and Ward did not serve the beast. Someday Roger Ward would have to decide whom he did serve; still, it would never be Lucifer.

They left the woods to enter open fields. The sun was shining strong in the east and rising.
