A Prisoner of Time

By Barbara Bretana

Book Two of the Rivers of Time series. Aidan is in boarding school and to fund his term, he takes to the rooftops of London to rob high-rises but makes the mistake of breaking into the offices of one of the Queen's Council Barristers and is caught on CCTV. Detective Inspectors from the Yard track him down and to escape them, he flees out the window of his room only to lose his footing and fall to his death. He wakes in the year 1483 in time to rescue the two young princes of the Tower and spirit them away to a new life in Holland. Richard the III sends him back to London and he is finally re-united with his family only to be kidnapped by the British Secret service who are interested in his life and death abilities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Bretana
• Release date: Mar 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311983428

Barbara Bretana

I've been writing and reading since the age of three. Anyone who knows me knows I'm nuts about horses, reading, dogs and painting. Went to school in Vermont, Castleton State and Pratt/Phoenix School of Design and found out college wasn't for me. Worked with Developmentally Disabled and loved it. Went back to school for my CNA license and decided to try writing for a career as I keep breaking things like my rotator cuff, discs and whatnot. Getting bucked off your horse, well, I don't bounce like I used to. I'm the one in the brown coat.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I frowned and smoothed it off my face giving the teacher a bland look as his gaze roamed over mine. He was looking for the next victim to be humiliated and belittled in the classroom and I did not intend to become that next unfortunate lad.

Mr. Argent, his voice snapped and I sighed as I brought my attention back from the delicate lacing of hoar frost on the leaded casement window that looked out on the Green that was anything but in the dead of an English winter.

Trees looked like naked upside down brooms and the grass was beaten down into mud by hundreds of feet. The ornamental bushes were stark twigs with a sere blue beauty like Picasso’s nudes. The roses-ah, the roses. They were sad ladies tucked into overcoats to protect them from the winter’s chill.

I turned my gaze back to the teacher. What is an algorithm?

A fatuous remark by the American Vice President? I quipped rolling my eyes. Behind me, I heard snickers that quickly died as the Physics Professor Mr. Compton-Baird turned his evil eye on the snorters.

Mr. Argent, I’m sorry if we are boring you. Perhaps you’d like to enlighten us with whatever captures your attention?

Oh, the mathematical improbability that no two snowflakes are alike, I answered. His face reddened. That had been yesterday’s lecture. I slid down in my seat and chewed on the eraser of my pencil and doodled some more on the notebook under my hand.

He came close, snatched it up and examined today’s lesson. His eyebrows rose as he inspected the neat pages of problems and answers. Without a word, he slammed the book down and continued on, tormenting John Blaisdell next on a question of integers. Another fifteen minutes and the bell rang. Forty first-formers bolted for the door and I was at the back of the pack.

Mr. Argent, a moment please, his voice called and I hesitated, my hand on the knob. Now, Aidan, he added. I shut the door and walked reluctantly over to his desk, standing with my head down and my eyes on the floor. I saw his shoes, expensive loafers with leather ties. Brown cordovan with white accent stitching. They looked hand-sewn and expensive. Do you find my shoes fascinating, Mr. Argent? Perhaps you’d like to purchase a pair? His scathing stare made derogatory work of my worn Pumas.

No. I was short as I gripped my backpack with suddenly sweaty palms. My hair needed trimming as it fell into my eyes and I tossed it back.

You need a haircut, Sir, he drawled. Your shirt is the same one you’ve worn three days in a row and those slacks are…jeans. Also, you’ve lost weight in the last three weeks and I’ve seen you in the dining hall eating only a basket of chips, the least expensive item on the menu. He stopped and waited for me to speak. I shrugged my shoulders having nothing to say. Your family is in financial difficulties, Mr. Argent? If you but approach the Director, he’ll be happy to assist you.

My mouth dropped. I’d been expecting a lecture not this concern. Aidan, you’re a very intelligent young man. The smartest boy in my class and in Miss Pummels English and History. We do want you to succeed and go on and we will help you however you need it. Shall I contact your parents and speak to them?

No, my voice was strangled and my eyes watered. I’ll talk to them when I can.

What do you mean, when you can?

They are out of the country.

Out of the country? Who is taking care of you? Your home? Aidan, look at me. His voice was oddly compelling and I lifted my head. His gray eyes were steady and clear, widened as he looked into mine. Your eyes, he wondered. I’ve never seen eyes that color – pale lavender.

I got them from my father, I joked and dropped them. I’ll be late catching the Northwest fifteen bus, Mr. Compton-Baird, I said uneasily. May I leave?

Yes, Mr. Argent. By the way, your homework was correct. All ninety-six problems. Why don’t you do the Aaronson equation for me? For extra credit.

Yes sir, I scooted out the door and ran down the hallway leading out onto the Green missing the crowd of wankers usually waiting to try and pound me. I missed the bus by five minutes and was forced to take the train instead, wasting my last ten shillings which meant tomorrow for lunch would be hot tea and soup scrounged from catsup packages. I sighed, pulled my belt tighter and descended into the tube station.

Chapter 2

I settled into one of the few open seats squashed between an older lady in a heavy parka holding a briefcase and a man that looked like a copper but might be a Detective Inspector. Most of the passengers were posh, well-dressed upper working class. It wasn’t until the fourth stop that the shopkeepers and working men got on heading into the city. By the time the tube reached my station, only a few of us were left. The lady with the briefcase and I were the only ones left from my original station.

I kept my eyes on my lap and bag to prevent any conversation although she did try to engage me saying that my thin school jacket was much too light for the vicious weather we were having. I mumbled something about having left it in class; her razor-sharp assessment didn’t call me a liar but I knew she saw my worn clothing and thin body. Rather than incur her sympathy or curiosity, I got off one station earlier than I normally would have. The doors closed on my butt and shoved me forward. This platform was quiet, cold and dark. Too many of the overhead lights had been busted by hooligans and not replaced. Even the CCTV’s were twisted and out of order.

I daren’t linger. Racing up the steps toward the street level I came out on Woodcombe Lane and crept down keeping to the shadows under the shop awnings and row houses. I walked the quarter-mile to the old warehouse that was my home and sneaked into the fenced lot through the gap in the chain-link. I walked my way through mountains of debris and clutter until I came to the steel and tin monstrous Quonset hut that was all that remained of the factory in the old movie studio. Many James Bond flicks had been filmed here; nothing remained of any part of them, no sets, furniture or props, just the vast empty space of the production floor and the director’s office in the rear. The only things left in there was what I had carted in and an old safe too large to haul out and too archaic to salvage.

I had a desk, a kerosene lantern, Aga, two bins that held my meager clothing and a hammock strung from two eyebolts on each wall. A cooler set at the foot of the hammock that held whatever food I had on hand and a chair with three legs. Everything had been scrounged from the rubbish bins. The director had had his own restroom, complete with shower and even though there was no heated water, the plumbing still worked. I could wash my face, brush my teeth and use the commode but for real shower, I had to wait until Phys Ed or sneak after classes and take one in the gym or men’s rooms. I hated to do it during class, there was always some spiff ready to jump the weaker boys and backdoor them. So far, I had escaped that fate but only because I never let myself be cornered or alone.

The cooler was empty. Not even a teabag. I sighed and shivered. I’d run out of fuel two days ago and anyway, I had no way to boil the water for a cuppa. So, I would either go hungry or have to go out. Hunger won out over fear. I took off my jeans and pulled on my black leggings, thin soled climbing slippers, navy blue sweatshirt and gloves.

Next on was my ski mask, nylon harness and jumper. I breathed deep, slowing my churning heartbeat and my sweating palms trying to stifle my nervous stomach. When my eyes opened, I was totally focused, relaxed and ready. Ten minutes later, I was on top of the warehouse roof and stepping lightly along the ridge careful not to silhouette myself in the dim moonlight. Here, I was the expert, sliding through the night like a dream; passing from one building to the next without worries or care and not afraid of falling. Like a gymnast on the balance bar, I climbed the façade of ornate Regency with Palladian accents. The marble was cold as the face of a maiden schoolmistress, the hand and toeholds child’s play for me.

The second story housed offices. I didn’t much care what kind; I was only interested in cash and once inside headed for the receptionist’s desk. I stood on it, turned slowly around and studied the open waiting area. I saw one large sitting room filled with comfy chairs, coffee tables with precise piles of glossy magazines and newspapers. A large widescreen TV was in one corner away from the door to the hallway and a row of windows. One window was open; blowing the curtain away from it gently, that was the one I’d entered from.

The inner office was directly opposite the hallway entrance. Inside was a man’s room, appointed