King of Trees

By Carmen Webster Buxton

“What if the world we’re on is only one thread out of millions of threads in the rope of time?”

The question the Outsider woman posed to him left Bardolph as confused as ever. He knew the Outsiders had appeared as if by magic many years before, during his great-grandfather’s reign, but he had never understood where they came from. He only knew they had changed Albion forever.

Melissa York might have been grateful to her rescuer, who called himself King of Albion, but she saw no reason to let her gratitude influence her opinion of antiquated notions like monarchy and pagan religions. Let the Druids go back to their forests. She and her people were the best defense Albion had against the invaders.

Bardolph knew better. All the people of Albion would need to work together or they would find themselves conquered again. Only this time instead of a Roman emperor, their tribute would be paid to one in faraway China. He only hoped the Outsiders were as clever and as powerful as rumor said they were, because Albion needed all the help it could get.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carmen Webster Buxton
• Release date: May 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988559936

Carmen Webster Buxton

I'm a pretty balanced person. I like both cats and dogs. I like a firm mattress but with lots of pillows. And I write science fiction and fantasy.I have several several novels and one novella as ebooks; check my website for more information on me and my work.

Book preview

King of Trees

by Carmen Webster Buxton

Cracked Mirror Press

Rockville, MD 20852

ISBN 978-0-9885599-2-9 (Kindle format)

ISBN 978-0-9885599-3-6 (ePub format)

© Karen Wester Newton

All rights reserved

Cover art by Anne D. Newton

Smashwords Edition

For all the members of the Writers Group From Hell, past and present, who helped me write this book. Some of you are in this story in more ways than one.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Acknowledgements

To the Reader

Prologue

SHARON York gripped the padded arms of her seat. What could she think about to take her mind off her fear?

Nothing. Instead of trying to ignore the experiment, she would calm herself by reviewing the possible outcomes. The simplest—perhaps even the most likely—was that the time catalyst could simply fail to operate. In an hour or so Sharon would go home to her flat in Camden Town, make herself a pot of tea, and then warm up some leftover take-away curry. The floor under Sharon’s feet hummed with a vibration so faint she could barely feel it through her rubber-soled trainers.

Or the experiment could succeed brilliantly and Sharon would suddenly be somewhere else entirely—somewhere better, with no gray smog hanging like an unwashed bed sheet on the London horizon, no roads choked with unending traffic, no shops full of adulterated beef, no Underground packed with stolid commuters. If the experiment worked, she would never again listen to a news reader describe horrific suicide bombings in the same well-modulated tones he used for the weather forecast.

Or finally, the experiment could fail in a spectacular fashion, and they would all be blown to a million tiny bits.

The vibration grew stronger. The webbed strap of her safety harness cut into the side of Sharon’s neck. She swallowed and told herself everything was fine.

A quick glance at the other time pioneers suggested they were all as scared as she was. Even David Benedict, two seats over, had a gray tinge to his face, and a tight ridge of tendon where he had clenched his jaw so tightly that it changed the lines of his face. When he strained against his safety harness to peer at the console in front of him, the corner of his right eye twitched.

Sharon looked away, unnerved. If the inventor of this apparatus was worried, how could she stay calm, strapped into her seat? The interior of the time catalyst did nothing to relieve her apprehension. More than anything, it resembled an amusement park ride based on a bad science fiction movie—lights and dials everywhere, a row of television monitors on one wall, every available space crammed with supplies, and twelve passengers securely strapped down in the three rows of padded seats, as if they were waiting for the ride to start.

Thirty seconds, David said.

Sharon took a deep breath and glanced at the television screens on the far wall. The first one, showing the image from the camera attached to the outside of the catalyst itself, was aimed at the cavernous interior of the warehouse in which the mechanism had been built. The next two monitors showed the neighborhood around the warehouse, in the middle of the morning commute. A light May drizzle wet the streets. At the nearest roundabout, an aged red Mini couldn’t quite merge in time. The inevitable collision happened soundlessly on the monitor. Sharon watched the drivers get out of their vehicles to inspect the damage.

The vibration under her feet grew suddenly much stronger. The whole floor shook violently. Her chair bucked like a bull in an American rodeo.

Ten seconds! David shouted. Hold on!

Sharon gripped her chair. Stephanie Paulson, the horticulturist in the next seat, turned a pale face toward her—eyes wide and dilated, knuckles white on the chair arm, mouth open but no sound coming out.

Sharon took a deep breath. Before she could speak, the world shook apart. Everything in the cabin—the walls, the dials and monitors, the gear stowed in bins, even the people—began to jitter back and forth. Stephanie’s face, framed by long mousy brown hair, had several edges at once, rather like a software icon dragged across a computer screen.

David spoke, but this time the sound that reached Sharon’s ears was as fragmented as the images in front of her. She gripped the chair handles even harder, desperate for the reassurance of nubby fabric under her fingers, but instead she felt only fuzzy nothingness. She had a strange feeling that she herself was blurred around the edges.

All at once, everything returned to normal. Everything had one outline, and David’s voice, shouting that they had made it, sounded clear and triumphant.

And then they started to fall. The time catalyst became an express lift in a twenty-story office building. Sharon’s stomach lurched, left behind by the rapid descent.

Stephanie screamed, the sound cut off as they landed with a horrendous, bone-crunching abruptness. The floor tilted, the walls buckled, and daylight rent the interior from several cracks in the skin of the time catalyst. Sharon could see slivers of beautiful blue through the cracks.

She stared up at the row of monitors. The screens that had displayed the view from the cameras outside the warehouse showed only static. But the monitor for the camera mounted on the front of the catalyst showed a tilted rural landscape—a wide green meadow dotted by a dozen grayish-white sheep. Beyond the meadow, a stream rushed along in the shadow of a lush forest. A dirt road, rutted and bumpy, wound its way through the foreground.

Sharon couldn’t take her eyes off the view. David had said they wouldn’t move through space, only through alternative time threads. They must still be in the same place the London suburbs had occupied, but there was no sign of people, let alone buildings. She swallowed hard. This was it, then. She wouldn’t be going home to her flat in Camden Town to tear up the letters to her mother and her boss that she had left behind for her landlady to find.

David released his safety harness and lurched to his feet, holding on to a stanchion on the wall beside him. Is everyone all right?

Marcus Piou, their biochemist, moaned from his seat at the end of the third row. I believe I’m hurt, he said in his soft island accent. My head—

Sharon twisted around in her front row seat to look. A metal cabinet behind Marcus dangled from the wall, one sharp corner marked with red. Marcus put one hand to his scalp where a trickle of blood ran down his face.

Sharon unhooked herself from her harness and tried to stand up. The floor tilted so badly, she started to slide. She grabbed the seat arms and held on.

Risa Benedict, David’s wife and one of the expedition’s two medical doctors got up from her chair beside her husband and climbed over the intervening team members to reach Marcus. It doesn’t look too bad, she said after a quick glance. Someone hand me my bag.

While his wife tended to the injured biochemist, David directed the other team members to leave their places carefully. He let himself slide down to the hatch, and opened it to let in the sunlight.

Sharon let go of her chair and slid down to join him. The adventure had begun.

SHARON squinted against the brightness. The morning sun was still low enough in the eastern sky to shine right into her eyes.

What do you think, Todd? David asked.

All of the pioneers stood well back from the time catalyst, in case it should slide any farther down the hill on which it had come to rest. Todd Shannahan, their mechanical engineer and the only American on the team, grimaced and shook his head. You know more about the mechanism than I do, Dave. But as far as the structure itself goes, we can’t fix it without some serious hardware that we don’t have.

David’s mouth set in a grim line. So we’re stranded here?

Todd’s answering gesture was half shrug, half flinch. Looks like it.

Marcus, his mahogany face even darker against the white bandage on his head, grinned with unrestrained optimism. It could be much worse. This version of Britain is clean and unpolluted—just what we were looking for. And it appears to have very similar vegetation. Even if we’re limited to native English species, we should be able to find food and raw materials—build what we need to survive.

Fish but no chips, Stephanie said. She looked much more cheerful now than she had inside.

There must be people here, Todd added. Someone made the road. It’s not a natural phenomenon.

Stephanie nodded. At least we won’t be faced with a total human gene pool of twelve individuals.

Sharon darted a rapid glance at the other pioneers’ faces. David and Risa were the only married couple. All the others were singles in their twenties, thirties, and early forties. During their planning sessions, the possibility of landing in a time continuum with no people had clearly pleased some of them more than others. David had insisted on filling the last two spaces on the team with young women to even up the numbers, just in case. Sharon hoped it didn’t come to that. Much as she wanted children, she didn’t fancy any of the men in the group.

Speaking of primitive road builders, Todd said, pointing with one hand, here comes one now.

Sharon turned her head to follow Todd’s pointing finger. A horse-drawn cart bounced slowly along the rutted road, raising a small cloud of dust as it moved. A single horse pulled the two-wheeled vehicle. Sharon had only a hazy idea of rural life, but it looked to her like a hay wain, except that it was empty of hay.

The lone figure riding on the bench seat suddenly pulled up on the reins. He must have seen them. The horse stopped and waited, stretching his neck toward the long green meadow grass that grew beside the narrow road.

Wow! Todd said. Damn! Could we have gone back in time, Dave?

The expedition leader snorted. Absolutely not. No, we’re in a parallel time.

That, Todd said in his flat American accent, is not a twenty-first century vehicle.

David drew himself up straighter. Possibly they count time from a different point of reference, but in absolute terms, it’s the same time frame. He took a step forward. Come along, Sharon. You’re the linguist. Time to go meet the locals and try to find out why this version of the world is so backward.

Sharon didn’t move. Are you sure that’s a good idea? Shouldn’t we break out the guns or the bullet-proof vests or something?

Todd let out a hoot of derision. I don’t think you need to worry about this guy having any weapons. I don’t see so much as a pitchfork on that wagon.

We shouldn’t all of us go, Risa said, folding her arms across her chest. We don’t want to scare the poor man away. Just David and Sharon and perhaps one other man.

I’ll go, Todd said. I want a better look at that cart.

David started forward and Sharon followed, still a little nervous, even with six-foot-tall Todd behind her and stocky David in front.

The man on the wagon looked less than intimidating from close up. Greasy salt-and-pepper hair just brushed his shoulders, and his short beard was even grayer. With his weather-beaten skin, stooped shoulders, and dark eyes squinting at them from under a battered straw hat, he seemed as apprehensive as she was. He wore a dark russet-colored smock over a pair of gray trousers, and short brown boots. The fabric of his clothes was coarsely woven. The wooden buttons of his smock looked hand-carved. He stared as they advanced toward him, and clutched the reins as if he were considering bolting.

Sharon smiled as warmly as she could and held out her empty hands. Good morning. Greetings.

He said something back, but she couldn’t understand it. She tried German and French, but he shook his head and rattled off more gibberish. It sounded vaguely familiar—almost certainly a Celtic language, with some Latin-sounding words mixed in.

No luck? David said.

Some words seem to have roots in common with English, Sharon said, unless I’m hearing them entirely wrong.

The stranger was staring at her. He pointed at her legs and burst out with a few agitated words.

Any idea what he’s saying? Todd asked.

She shrugged. I’m not sure. I think that last bit included the Breton word for woman. It could be that he’s upset by our clothes. We must look pretty strange to him.

She surveyed her own clothes critically. They all wore comfortable trousers, long-sleeved jumpers, and sensible shoes. It wasn’t precisely a uniform, but as storage space had been so tight, everyone’s wardrobe had compressed into a unisex model that stressed functionality over style. The bright blue of Sharon’s jumper definitely contrasted with the dingy russet and gray the stranger wore. Their rubber-soled trainers stood out here, as well.

David nodded back at the tree-dotted hillside where the catalyst had come to rest. The mechanism looked rather like a giant tin of potted meat that had split open. I expect our appearance looks odd to him.

Before Sharon could agree, the stranger lifted the reins and called out Hay-yah! The horse surged forward, and the cart rolled away at a rapid rate, bouncing over the ruts and jolting its occupant considerably.

Do we try to stop him? Todd asked.

No, David said. I don’t want anyone to think we’re hostile. I expect he’ll spread the word, and more people will be along soon. Let’s get the tents set up and be ready when they come.

Todd stared after the disappearing cart. "The wheel hubs on his cart were steel, so they can’t be too backward. And even though his smock was probably made from hand woven cloth, the nuts holding on the wheel hubs looked die cast. It’s not as bad as I thought it was at first."

David nodded, his eyes also following the man in the cart.

Todd cleared his throat. Sharon might have a point about the guns. When someone does show up, it wouldn’t hurt to have a couple of our best shots standing by with rifles—out of sight, but not out of range.

David paused for a long moment, and then shrugged. I agree. Better to be safe than sorry.

Sharon had to stifle a laugh. Now was a fine time to worry about what was safe.

SHARON paused before she entered the tent, to glance downhill at the meadow, where a campfire flickered in the darkness. It had been quite a day. She had traveled from one time stream to another, and had met and tried to converse with over a dozen strangers who might as well have stepped out of the pages of a history book.

She wished she knew whether to feel hopeful or worried about the inhabitants of this world. In some ways, it was a relief that they were too primitive to have modern weaponry; the squad of soldiers sitting by the campfire would have been much scarier if they had had guns instead of swords and spears. On the other hand, there were doubtless many, many more of them.

Sharon sighed and pushed her way into the tent. The electric lantern made the canvas walls glow with a soft golden—and reassuringly modern—light. The other pioneers had all crowded into the largest tent to sit cross-legged on the ground and talk over the day. Sharon sat down and looked around at the circle of faces, ranging from Marcus’ deep brown to Stephanie’s pale pink with freckles. At twenty-eight, Risa was among the youngest, while David at forty-three was the oldest. Yesterday all they had had in common was a fierce desire to end the desecration of their environment, and now they were life-long companions.

I think it’s a success, David. Risa said, resting her elbows on her knees. We wanted a cleaner world, and we found one.

Yeah, Todd added. If anything, the fact that these folks are so backward is a plus. We can make sure they don’t make the same mistakes our world did.

Murmurs of agreement sounded all around the tent.

David nodded. Good point. Any idea how long it will take you to learn to communicate with them, Sharon?

Sharon had already made an estimate. Not too long—maybe a few weeks. I’ve already been able to learn that they call this part of our island Albion, not England, and I’ve established their names and to some extent ranks. The tall gray-haired man with the beard is a representative of their king.

"Their king? Stephanie squeaked. You mean there’s a king of this England?"

It sounds like it, David said, holding up one hand to stop the chatter that had broken out. It’s clear this world didn’t progress as fast as ours did, so it’s no surprise they’re still clinging to the kind of nonsensical traditions our great-grandparents did away with after the war. He turned his attention back to Sharon. What about the young woman in the white robe?

Sharon smiled, sure she would surprise him. I’m not positive, but I think she’s a Druid.

A what? David sounded gratifyingly amazed.

A Druid, Sharon repeated. I’m not an historian, but it looks like in this England there are still old-style Druids—not people who like to dance half naked under the full moon, but actual tree-worshipping pagans. In fact, they seem well respected by those in authority. The soldiers showed the woman a lot of deference, and when she spoke to the earl or baron or whatever he was, he was clearly paying attention.

What did she say? Todd asked.

Sharon shook her head. I could only follow a little of it—the odd word or two. It’s as if they mixed the same ingredients as went into our English, but with different amounts. The base seems to be a Celtic dialect with a little Latin mixed in, but many fewer German words. The Earl knew some Latin—at least that sounded the same—and that gave us a common ground, which will help tremendously. After I learn their language, you’ll all need to learn it, too.

Definitely, David said. We’re here for good, so we need to set about making this world into a reasonable place for our children to grow up.

Everyone glanced at Risa. She ducked her head and smiled. Yes, that’s David’s way of telling you I’m pregnant.

Congratulations, Sharon said. So, what’s the first step in this plan to reform the world?

First, David said, his voice solemn, we keep the guns handy but out of sight, in case events turn hostile. We don’t know what kind of technology these people have, but from the swords and lances we saw today, I’d say it’s not very advanced. I don’t see any reason to widen their horizons, as yet. Let’s see where we stand before we offer any knowledge or aid. Then, we can decide what we want to show them.

Todd grimaced. That sounds like a good idea in more ways than one. If there’s a king ruling Albion, he won’t take kindly to people who know he’s got no more right to rule than a peasant does.

Ah! David said. We may all think that, but we need to be circumspect about saying it. He glanced around the circle at all their faces. We need to think before we speak, and consult with the group before we act.

Risa nodded. I agree. We’re all in this together. We need to protect each other and to be united in our efforts.

Silence filled the tent. Sharon looked from one face to the next. No one spoke until Marcus bent over and held out one hand clenched into a fist. Agreed! We stand united.

After a second’s hesitation, eleven other hands reached out to his, as everyone in the circle leaned forward to clasp his hand.

We stand united, Sharon echoed with the rest.

Where would it lead, this temporal experiment? She didn’t know, but at least she could breathe clean air every morning and eat beef without worrying. That was something. And it wasn’t like she had left anyone behind in Camden Town. Even her cat had died.

David was right. She had a clean start here. She would make the most of it—and do her best to make sure Albion became a very different place from what her version of England had been.

Chapter One

BARDOLPH sighted down the length of the arrow and aimed at the brownish-gray blotch of the hare’s body, barely distinguishable from the shadows of the grayish-brown trees behind it. Only the animal’s twitching nose betrayed its presence. Bardolph breathed a silent prayer to the spirit of the tiny beast, and loosed the arrow. It sang through the air, impaling the hare through its body and hitting the tree with a thunk.

The hare twitched for a few seconds, then went limp. Bardolph let out a sigh of relief that his prey had died quickly. He trotted to the tree and knelt beside the dead animal, to hold one hand just above the lifeless but still warm body and say a reverence, thanking the hare for its sacrifice. After a decent moment of silence, he dug the arrow from the tree with his knife and cleaned the arrow point carefully on the mossy ground.

Bardolph opened his game bag to add this new kill. Three plump hares was a good day’s work and would make more than one meal. His mother would have started preparing supper already, but if he asked her, she might fry one of the hares for dinner tomorrow.

The thought of supper made him realize his stomach was telling him to start for home. He strode briskly though the woods, trying unsuccessfully for a glimpse of the sun through the trees. When he stepped out from the cool dimness of the woods into the warmth of the open meadow, the sun was low in the western sky. He was late.

Dragonflies swooped over the water as he passed the brook, their rhythmic droning reminding him of the whir of his mother’s spinning wheel. The hard soles of his boots sliced the heads off the wild tansy, releasing their pungent aroma. Bardolph stooped to pick a few of the bright yellow blossoms. His mother liked to keep a bowl of tansy on the kitchen table to deter the flies.

Bardolph shifted the strap of his game bag on his shoulder as he came in sight of his family’s holding. He saw no black smoke against the clear blue summer sky. Father must not have come back from his errands. Or perhaps he had decided it was too late in the day to fire up the forge?

Bardolph walked faster, conscious of being tardy. Responsibility weighed more heavily on him now that he was a man grown. As he came around the corner of the cow shed at the back of the yard, he saw a crowd of people waiting outside his back door.

He recognized Ethelred the carter, Berta the baker’s wife, and a half dozen others from nearby shops and houses. They all stood quietly, speaking only in very low tones and not moving about.

Berta saw him first. Here’s young Bardolph, she cried. Bardolph’s come home!

Bardolph stopped in his tracks, trying to assess what it all meant.

A moment later his mother’s oldest brother came out of the back door. Hurry along, Bardy, he called out. Your mother needs you.

Bardolph dropped the tansy and ran the rest of the way home. What’s wrong, Uncle Edward? he asked as he approached the door.

Come inside, boy, Edward said.

The crowd parted for Bardolph, like flood waters flowing around a hill. He and Edward went into the house, Bardolph stooping as he entered, so as not to bump his head. He glanced around at the cozy familiarity of the kitchen—the big iron stove glowing with warmth, the bright copper pots hanging on the wall, the blue and green plaid curtains. But his mother was nowhere to be seen. The sturdy, middle-aged woman adding wood to the stove was Edward’s wife. She dusted her hands on her apron and looked up as they came in.

Ach! she said, sounding anxious. So, the boy’s home. Did you tell him?

Tell me what? Bardolph demanded. What was going on? Where was his mother? It had to be bad news for so many people to be waiting outside.

It’s your father, Bardy, Edward said. He’s been hurt—badly hurt.

Bardolph’s heart thudded in his chest. What? How?

It was an accident, Edward said. Ethelred’s cart backed and knocked him down. One of the rear wheels went right over him.

Bardolph caught his breath, a dull ache starting deep inside him. How badly was he hurt?

Edward’s eyebrows twitched together. His mouth turned down at the corners in a solemn frown. The cart was almost fully laden. Patrick’s chest was crushed. The doctor’s upstairs with him now.

Bardolph dropped his game bag, his bow, and his quiver, then turned and rushed up the back stairs. His mother’s sister Rowena stood on the landing holding a sobbing female figure comfortingly against her ample bosom.

Bardolph’s younger sister Eluned lifted her tear-stained face toward him. Bardy! she cried, pulling away from their aunt. Oh, Bardy! Father’s going to die!

Hush, Ellie, he chided gently, as she threw her arms around him. He stroked her golden hair and held her tightly for a moment. She wasn’t short, but she barely came up to his chin. He leaned his face against her head, her hair tickling his cheek. Where’s Mother?

In their room, Ellie said tearfully. She’s with Father and the doctor.

You go in, Bardy, his Aunt Rowena said. Your mother said you were to go in as soon as you came home.

Bardolph lifted the latch and opened the door slowly, afraid of what he might see.

His parents’ room was the largest upstairs chamber. A big, high four-poster bed in the middle of the room took most of the floor space. A wardrobe on the adjacent wall left only a small area between it and the fireplace on the far wall. A small fire crackled in the fireplace. Between that and the two glazed windows, the room had adequate light. The faint odor of lavender and wood smoke filled the air.

Bardolph recognized the middle-aged man near the fire as Cyric Andrewson, who served as both doctor and apothecary to the village.

Bardolph’s mother stood by the bed, bending over the motionless shape under the covers. When she looked up, it seemed to Bardolph that she had aged since that morning. Her hair had pulled loose from the bun at the back of her head, the gray hair curling more than the black. The lines of her face had deepened. Her hazel eyes had dulled to gray-brown.

Bardolph noted the slight but steady rise and fall of his father’s chest, and the rasping sound that accompanied it. His father was very pale, and it terrified Bardolph to see how bloodless his lips and fingers looked.

Bardy, his mother whispered furiously. You’re home at last!

I’m sorry, Mother, Bardolph said in the same low tone. I was hunting.

I was afraid— his mother began, and then she broke off and moved around the bed toward Bardolph.

How is he? Bardolph asked, before she could decide to continue. He wanted to believe this was all a dream, but the smell of lavender, the warmth of the fire, the hiss of the kettle simmering on the fender told him he was awake. This was real, and nothing he could do could stop time from moving forward.

Very bad, his mother said, with a nod at the doctor, who had moved closer. Tell him, please, Cyric.

The doctor glanced at the silent figure in the bed before he spoke. I’ll not hide the truth from you, Bardolph. His tone was grim, but his voice was so low Bardolph had to bend his head to hear him. As I’ve already told Gertruda, there’s no hope that I can see.

Bardolph swallowed a sob. His father had always been the rock of his existence, as strong, kind and wise as anyone he knew. It seemed impossible that he could be lost so swiftly, with no warning. A surge of anger flooded through Bardolph. How could Cyric say so calmly there was no hope?

Can you do nothing for him? The words came out more belligerently than Bardolph had intended.

The doctor’s eyes held only pity. He kept his voice low. I might not be an Outsider, but I’ve read their medical books. When I listen to Patrick’s chest, I can hear air escaping from his lungs, which means they’ve been pierced. And his lips and fingertips are cold, which means his blood’s path through his body is failing.

Is he in pain? Bardolph spoke in equally low tones, fighting panic with difficulty. It sounded very bad.

Yes, Cyric said. I’ve given him a draft to ease the worst of it, but he can still feel it.

Bardy!

Bardolph turned at once at the hoarse whisper from the bed. Yes, Father? he said, coming over to stand beside his father.

I’m glad … you came home … in time, Bardy. Bardolph could barely hear the faint words between his father’s rasping breaths. His father lifted one hand as if it were an effort to hold it up.

Yesterday that hand had lifted a solid steel hammer as easily as a feather. Bardolph almost broke down in tears. He took his father’s hand and held it. I’m here.

Look after … your mother and … your sister … for me, his father said. The wheezy rasps that punctuated the short sentence made each word sound as if it could be his last. I know … I can trust you, Bardy. You’ve been … a good son. You’ll make … a fine king.

His mother turned her face away.

Gertruda? Patrick said weakly.

I’m here, she said, moving swiftly to stand beside Bardolph.

You won’t … forget your … promise to me? Bardolph’s father said, his voice gaining strength as he spoke the last words. You won’t break faith?

I won’t break faith, Patrick, Gertruda said.

Patrick let go of Bardolph’s hand and reached for his wife’s. She gripped his fingers tightly.

Truda, he said, sounding weaker again, as if that one burst of strength had drained him. He tried to move her hand to his lips, but he couldn’t manage it.

Bardolph’s mother sobbed once, then bit her lip.

Eluned, Patrick said, gasping. I must say … goodbye … to Eluned.

I’ll get her, Bardolph said, desperate for a chance to escape the room, if only for a moment.

When he opened the door, his sister took one look at his face and burst into tears. He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him.

You must be strong for a few minutes, Ellie, he said, swallowing his own trepidation. He could feel a sense of detachment growing, almost as if he were leaving his body to watch what was happening as an observer to someone else’s tragedy. It helped him maintain his calm. He had only to direct his words and movements, and not think about what he was saying. Father wants to talk to you for just a moment. You can cry later, but don’t distress him now. Try to smile and let him see how brave you can be.

Ellie nodded dumbly. Bardolph held the door open for her, then followed her inside.

Patrick smiled a weak smile and said her name. Tears trickled down Ellie’s cheeks. When Patrick asked her to kiss him goodbye, she did so, but then she sobbed helplessly.

Gertruda, Patrick said, gasping the word as if it pained him to utter it. My … dear … wife.

Bardolph didn’t wait to hear the rest. He helped his sister from the room and handed her into their aunt’s waiting arms. He debated about going back, but hesitated to interrupt his parents in what might be their last moments together. So he waited, his heart weighing heavy in his chest, trying to recapture that sense of detachment that had helped him before. His world was changing. He had awakened that morning without any cares beyond doing his chores, and now he was losing his father and having responsibility thrust upon him at the same time. A few minutes later, he heard his mother’s voice through the door.

Bardy! she called.

Bardolph ripped open the door and went to her.

Your father wants you, she said, her voice sounding hollow in the quiet of the room. Cyric hovered in the corner, as if he didn’t want to intrude.

Bardolph bent over his father’s still form so the dying man could whisper into his ear.

Go with them … when … they come for you, boy, Patrick said, the wheezing with each breath almost drowning out the words. Don’t fail … in your duty.

I won’t fail, Father, Bardolph whispered back. Not you, and not Albion.

Good boy, Patrick said. You have … my love … always, Bardy.

And you have mine, Father.

Patrick flailed at Bardolph’s hand, as if he had something important to say and wanted Bardolph to heed it well. When you …see … your sister … you must … tell her … that she had … a place … in my heart, even … if I … couldn’t … tell her so.

Bardolph stared. His father’s mind must be failing as fast as his body; he had just told Ellie that he loved her. Too distressed to correct his father, Bardolph merely nodded agreement. I will.

Kiss me … farewell, then, Patrick said, managing a wavering smile, even though it sounded like each word pained him.

Bardolph bent over and kissed his father’s cheek. When Patrick gestured, he held his own face near so that his father could return the kiss. His father’s lips were cold on his skin, his breath faint as a whisper.

Gertruda, Patrick said.

Bardolph’s mother leaned over from the other side of the bed and pressed her lips to the dying man’s cheek. Patrick whispered something to her, but Bardolph couldn’t hear what it was.

When Gertruda straightened up, her eyes were wet with tears.

Don’t let … my name be … forgotten, Patrick said, barely getting out the last word.

He closed his eyes and gave a little sigh.

BARDOLPH stayed until the end. Cyric left them for a short time to check on a sick child, but he had returned by the time Patrick gave a last faint, gasping breath. The doctor held a mirror to his lips, but no warmth fogged its polished surface.

He’s gone. Cyric lifted the linen sheet over the dead man’s face, then took a small sprig of rowan from his bag and laid it reverently on Patrick’s chest. Patrick son of Julian, King of Albion, returns to the earth whence he came.

Gertruda wiped away one stray tear; her face grew suddenly hard, like a carved statue. We can manage now, thank you, Cyric. Dying may be doctor’s work, but the dead belong to their womenfolk.

If Bardolph hadn’t been so possessed by grief, the sharpness of his mother’s tone would have made him wince. As it was, he was numb as he saw the doctor to the door, and then broke the news of his father’s passing to Ellie and the aunts and uncles who were waiting.

The rest of that day became a painful blur to Bardolph. Every time he stepped into a room, he expected to see his father. In the kitchen he remembered his father telling him stories during supper, of the kings of ancient Albion; in the parlor he recalled Patrick’s lessons in responsibility and manners. When he went into the darkness of the yard to fetch more wood, he could see in his mind’s eye the first time his father had taught him how to fight.

In an effort to compose himself, Bardolph nourished his detachment and let it grow. Once his mother and his aunts had washed and dressed the body, he helped his uncles to carry his father down the stairs to the makeshift bier in the front parlor. His sense of otherness had become so compelling that he seemed almost to be watching a cast of strangers in a play. Some other young man carried his father’s body down the stairs; some other young man carried chairs into the parlor. The young man’s mother and sister lit candles so that the stranger’s family could sit to keep vigil, to offer comfort to the soul of the departed as it made its way to the next world. Bardolph didn’t feel like a source of comfort. He felt only emptiness.

They had a cold supper and then stayed by the body the whole night through, as was customary. Ellie fell asleep with her head in her mother’s lap, but Bardolph stayed awake, his mind blank as he tried not to think about the future. When the gray light of dawn broke through the parlor windows, everyone went upstairs to get a few hours sleep before the callers would come to pay their last respects. Bardolph laid his head on his pillow, relieved that his fatigue was great enough to overcome his sorrow.

When he woke, his head felt stuffed with cloth and his mouth dry as a bone. He could hear angry voices, and he wondered who was quarreling in a house of bereavement.

He washed and dressed quickly, and when he stepped into the hall, he knew at once what had happened.

His great-uncle had come.

ROLF Bardolphson was over eighty years old. He had been born a king’s son, but he had lived most of his adult life out of doors. In consequence he had a wizened look, like wood left out to weather, and the deep, booming voice of someone used to making himself heard in a forest or across a clearing. Bardolph’s mother was a tall woman, but even stooped with age, Rolf still loomed over her.

What in all Albion do you mean by ordering a coffin for the boy, Gertruda? He’s got no use for a coffin. They’ll be here for him soon. You know it as well as I.

Bardolph felt a jolt of unease at the idea that he needed a coffin, until he realized that the boy in question was his father. To Great-uncle Rolf, a man of only forty-five was still a boy.

We’ve laid him out in the front parlor, Gertruda said, her own voice rising in volume, as if she meant to match Rolf’s, for the visitors, and then we’ll bury him in the family plot, beside all our dead babes, as soon as the cabinet-maker has finished making the coffin.

What? Rolf made the single word sound like a speech of denouncement. You can’t put a king of Albion in a wooden box and shove him into the dirt like any peasant! He’ll go to his glory just as his fathers have done before him!

Glory! Gertruda’s chin came up. Glory! Where’s the glory in providing a bonfire for a bunch of old people in dirty robes? He was a smith—a good, decent man, but a smith—and we’ll bury him like any good, decent man deserves to be buried.

Under the wispy gray thatch of his hair, Rolf’s face had turned as red as a late summer apple. You can’t do this, Gertruda. You can’t deny what Patrick was, and you can’t keep him from what’s his by right!

I was his wife, Gertruda said, and now I’m his widow. If he was King of Albion, then I was Queen, and I say he shall be buried with our children, with me beside him when my time comes!

Bardolph took two steps down the stairs. They both broke off their conversation to stare up at him.

Did you hear? Rolf demanded. Did you hear what your mother plans?

I doubt there’s a house on this street where they haven’t heard, thanks to you, Uncle Rolf, Bardolph said, trying for a mild tone. You’ll wake Ellie if you keep it up.

Gertruda put her hands under the starched linen apron she wore