Garnet And Gold: A Collection Of Medieval Historical Fiction

By John Broughton

A collection of four medieval historical novels by John Broughton, now in one volume!

Angenga: When Rick Hughes receives a reliquary pendant as a gift from an old friend, he has no idea what's coming next. Drawn to an old excavation site, Rick stumbles upon a portal that takes him back to the 8th century, and in the middle of a Viking invasion. After discovering a shocking link to the present, Rick is determined to intervene and save the inhabitants of the village from devastation - and to find a scientific explanation for what is happening. With the perils of 8th century England surrounding him, can Rick save his new friends - and live to tell the tale?

John The Old Saxon: In his darkest hour, hiding in the depths of the Somerset marshes in 878 AD, King Alfred devises a scheme to save his kingdom from the Viking invaders. His spectacular success, beginning with the triumphant battle of Ethandun, involves creating a sense of nation among his subjects. To help with this, Alfred gathers a small band of brilliant foreign scholars in his court, chief among them John the Old Saxon. In this epic tale set in medieval England, you'll discover how King Alfred laid the foundations for a united country, and the tenth-century Anglo-Saxon Renaissance.

Perfecta Saxonia: Abandoned by his father and raised by his uncle, young Athelstan faces numerous adversities on his way to becoming a mighty warrior and diplomat. But can he overcome the odds to transform England from an insignificant island off the Western European mainland, into the leading centre of tenth-century diplomacy and learning? Discover the story of one of the most important English kings, who put in place the foundations of modern-day England.

Ulf's Tale: At the start of the slaughter-marred eleventh-century, nine-year-old Ulf is taken hostage by King Aethelred. It’s the beginning of a life of luxury and opportunity for Ulf. But treachery and plotting throughout the country threaten uneasy alliances, while ambitious rivals attempt to seize power for themselves. His own life threatened, Ulf embarks on a quest for unity to bring peace to the Baltic states. But will his own moral convictions be enough to overcome divided loyalties, religious clashes and ambitious kings?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Next Chapter
• Release date: Jul 14, 2022

Book preview

Garnet And Gold

GARNET AND GOLD

A COLLECTION OF MEDIEVAL HISTORICAL FICTION

JOHN BROUGHTON

CONTENTS

Angenga

John The Old Saxon

Perfecta Saxonia

Ulf’s Tale

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 John Richard Broughton

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

ANGENGA

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF TIME

Special thanks go to my dear friend John Bentley for his steadfast and indefatigable support. His content checking and suggestions have made an invaluable contribution to Angenga. I would also like to thank my friend Arduino Virgini for his advice on scientific matters: any technical inaccuracies are my own responsibility.

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note: Angenga = Voyager or Wanderer in Old English.

1

CHRIST’S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY 2011 AD

Rick Hughes, PhD student in Anglo-Saxon philology at the University of Cambridge, spent much time reflecting on Time, only to arrive at the conclusion that Time does not exist. And if it does not exist, how can one waste it on useless conjecture? For something that does not exist, Rick felt its pressure on a daily basis – if there is such a thing as a day. In his studies there was so much for him to learn and so little he had achieved. The mystery of darkness intrigued him and especially what some historians label the Dark Ages .

They were dark because a long time ago – there it was again, Time putting its huge hoof print into his muddied desire for knowledge – lived and died people who would today be amazed at what we do not know about things that were so plain to them.

Rick sighed and heaved himself out of his padded armchair. He glimpsed himself in the mirror, drew near and inspected a rogue silver grey hair, the only one among the thick chestnut waves crowning his head. He took it between finger and thumb, steeled himself and pulled it out by the root. Voilà! A tangible sign of time passing before his eyes. We all age – and he was now twenty-six – including our ancestors before us and our descendants if we are fated to create them. He inspected the skin of his reflected face, pleased at the negative response; no wrinkles yet.

In the uncertainty of his present one thing lurked for sure: if he lingered, indulging himself with further reflections on Time, he would be late – whatever that might mean – for an encounter with his friend, Gary, Gareth Marshall, which the latter had described as pressing – whatever that might mean...

Rick hesitated in front of the neo-Gothic Pitt Building on Jesus Lane. Not for the first time he wondered why Gary, who had disappeared after graduation, had contacted him with such urgency. What could be so important as to make his carefree friend so insistent on the phone? Knowing him he wouldn’t show up on time. But it would be good to see him after a whole year had slipped by.

A besotted couple clinging to each other, she teetering on the precarious towering heels of shoes that seemed all straps, stumbled through the doors of the Hidden Rooms. Momentarily the anguished notes of a jazz sax reached Rick from the basement club and snapped him out of his reverie.

With renewed determination, he opened the door and strode down the stairs to join a lively atmosphere. He was wrong about Gary’s punctuality; he spotted him hunched over a steaming drink contained in a plain glass cup. The blond hair fell away to either side of his face as he looked up to reveal a cheerful grin when he recognised his friend.

Gary hadn’t changed; the same deep-set piercing and pale blue eyes sat under heavy eyebrows. He could do with a haircut. His blond mop of hair made him appear like an ageing student, out of place among this smarter generation or a throwback to the seventies.

Hiya Rick, how’re you doing?

The greeting came thickly, snuffling.

Got a cold?

Yeah, all that tramping around in the windswept fenlands – the piss-pot of the world!

What’s that you’re drinking? The Gary I know should be wrapping himself around a pint of beer or something stronger. They have a fine selection of single malts here, you know.

Kochaine Cytryna – ginger in it. As I said, a stinker of a cold.

He fumbled in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a tissue to underline his assertion. You should try one, they’re very good. This came out muffled before being interrupted by ferocious nose-blowing.

No thanks, I’ll stick to beer, Rick said, nudging past a group of lads blocking his route to the bar. The sax began to filter into his consciousness, mellow, melodic, jousting with the drums and bass: an interacting trio applying the philosophy of ‘less is more’. He found himself nodding to the beat as he waited his turn at the bustling counter where he chose a bottle of craft beer. He carried the cold glass which was dripping condensation onto his trouser leg, back to where his former course-mate sat feeling sorry for himself.

She’s good isn’t she? Rick offered, referring to the sax player.

Says here she won a prize, Gary pushed a shiny leaflet across the table.

Ah, Josephine Davies – the Perrier Young Jazz Award – and, by the sound of it, well deserved.

"I bought her album, Satori, the blue eyes fixed on Rick; he knew that gaze. What was coming? A Buddhist word, it means a moment of illumination or clarity."

The music temporarily pushed out of his mind, Rick tilted forward and took the bait.

Talking about clarity, why exactly did you bring me here, Gary? You look as if you should be in bed with a hot water bottle.

Only a bloody cold. He took a cautious sip of his drink and Rick noticed the shaking hand as he set the cup down in its saucer. Great choice of watering hole, old son.

I come here when I want to relax. Strange we didn’t find it when we were undergrads. It opened in 2009 but we spent most of our time in the Eagle, didn’t we?

"Yeah, the good old days. We could put ’em away then, mate. Do you still play that guitar of yours? You have a great singing voice, Rick. I always thought you could have a career in music if you wanted. How are you doing or more to the point, old son, what are you doing? Still chipping away at Anglo-Saxon England?"

It’s my second year PhD, so I’m immersing myself in poems, riddles and practically anything that was written between 500 and 900 AD. But yes, I still play and sing to while away the time. It relaxes me.

Just think, I could have been doing that too if I’d been a bit more serious. I mean the Anglo-Saxon stuff. I can’t sing for the life of me. I like cigarettes and whiskey and wild, wild women... He conjured up what was meant to be a roguish grin that made him look like a model posing for a gargoyle sculptor. I wanted to get out and earn some money and I was fed up with studying. I swore I wouldn’t read another book for at least a couple of years. I failed in that, of course.

Rick wasn’t surprised, for all Gary’s bravado, he had been a serious student – one of the reasons they had formed a friendship. Gary, though not today maybe owing to his cold, was relaxed and good company in his free time. Rick studied the familiar face, high forehead, sharp, lively eyes, full lips, but not excessively so, and the inevitable designer stubble. All told, Gary was good-looking, intelligent and companionable. This time he was subdued and irritating because this encounter remained a mystery and unasked questions hung in the air between them. A guy doesn’t press for a meeting after a year of silence unless he has something on his mind. Short of blurting out a crude question, which wasn’t Rick’s style, he was no nearer to finding out what. He would try something more delicate.

Sorry about the cold, Gary, but you got me wondering. What’s a bloke like you doing wandering around fenland fields catching the granddaddy of all colds?

He grinned again, less gargoyle, more a blond version of the BBC presenter Neil Oliver on a battlefield.

That’s the reason I’m here.

At last!

You see, I miss all this.

All what?

He swung a finger in a horizontal arc from left to right.

All what? Rick put his thought into words. Drinking in a Cambridge club?

The academic world. I never thought I’d say this, Rick, but I do miss it.

Gary ended up with an upper second class honours degree and possessed an unquestioned intellect, but this revelation, given how eager he had been to ‘earn in the real world’, surprised his friend.

In fact, that’s why I took up metal detecting.

You did? Rick was unhappy at this red rag flourished in the face of his inner raging bull. Impenitent metal detectorists were site looters, the cause of many archaeological sites being ruined and artefacts spirited away un-catalogued on the black market. There were always the unscrupulous prepared to pay big money as long as their secret collections grew.

I know what you’re thinking, but I swear everything I find is regularly reported to the Portable Antiquities Scheme. I provide GPS coordinates, depth of find, soil conditions, landowner’s name and so on and I hand over everything. I want to show you this.

He pulled a smartphone from a pocket and flicked through the apps with finger and thumb, bringing a photograph to fill the whole screen.

"Take a look at this pal. I discovered it! He spun the phone round on the table and Rick had no doubt about what he was seeing.

A stylus. Is it Saxon?

Right. More likely Anglian if you want to split hairs, but this is no ordinary piece. A high-status object dated eighth-century, Rick, solid silver and decorated, see there. He indicated the ornate head of the artefact. This belonged to someone important and what’s interesting, after I handed it over to the experts, they practically begged me to go back to the site and unearth whatever I could. Rick, I found twenty more stylii from the same century. The place is an archaeological bombshell and they’re getting excited.

Where exactly is it?

A ploughed field at Little Carlton.

I thought you said it was in the Fens?

Well not really. It was fenland in the eighth century though, now it’s a barley field near Louth.

I know the area, Gary. Remember, I was born in Tealby. I’m Lincolnshire through and through.

Yeah, a yellow-belly, I know. Sorry. Look, I’ve brought something off the site for you.

A stylus?

No.

He rummaged around in a man bag and pulled out a small object wrapped in lint. Rick did not miss the furtive glance that he shot around the people standing and sitting nearby.

The Finds Liaison Officer doesn’t know about this, does he?

FLO? No, he doesn’t.

"Well then, how do you expect me to accept this gift?"

Rick looked with longing at the small cream-coloured artefact and a strange sensation of yearning to possess it swept through him. He picked it up, careful to keep the lint in place, and realised it was not quite the box he had first thought it to be. However, it had a fitted lid to the front bearing a familiar image of Christ sitting on a rainbow. No, this was...he sought for the correct term, he had seen a photograph of something similar found near Oxford...a reliquary pendant – that was it. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he picked up the artefact with it, aware that ivory is susceptible to staining by handling, hence the lint. Bringing the object closer to his face, he made out some letters in Old English carved into the material. The writing was indistinct; he would need to clean the surface. This artefact was in need of tender loving care. He wondered what the pendant had contained but resisted trying to open the fragile object. These thoughts confirmed that he would accept Gary’s gift but he would dress his acceptance in robes of correctness.

I think it’s ivory, Gary. Very delicate, so I’ll have to take it to the archaeology laboratory and see that it gets all the conservation treatment it needs. Now then, he stared at his friend, "this is ivory, not metal. How did you detect it? I’m assuming you found it?"

I did. I detected another stylus and this little fellow was nestling beside it. I’m guessing it will be eighth-century like the stylus. But nobody’s seen it except us two. Let’s keep it that way, eh?

Why did you want to give it to me, Gary?

He looked embarrassed and mumbled, I don’t know why but I wanted to give it to you from the moment I found it. The thought’s been nagging away at me so I thought you’d appreciate it and know–

What to do with it. Rick finished.

They sat in silence for a moment or two, Rick absorbing the interplay of jazz notes.

This is a lovely track, Gary cut across his thoughts, "on the album called Paradoxy."

Paradoxy? Rather like you bringing an unreported artefact to me?

Rick, look, I’m sorry, he reached out his hand to take it back but Rick seized the pendant, keeping it carefully in the handkerchief, and dropped it into his jacket pocket.

He tried to cover his Frodo-like behaviour by bluster, I’ll see it gets all the necessary conservation treatment, Gary. Then we’ll talk about making its presence known to the wider world. OK?

Gary nodded but looked distracted.

I think I should get back to my digs. I need hot milk and aspirin. I’ll give you a ring tomorrow, all being well.

In his room, Rick settled down in an armchair and turned the pendant over in his hands. The sensation of holding a more than twelve-hundred-year-old object overwhelmed him. Who had worn this around their neck? Had it contained a saint’s bone? Was it still inside? He examined the outer edge of the container. There was a hinge but it was iron and so badly corroded that its flakiness meant any attempt to prise it open must be made under lab conditions.

Tumultuous thoughts beset him. If he took the pendant to the lab, its existence would become public knowledge and Gary’s role in its subtraction would be exposed. Rick struggled with his conscience and set against it the avid inexplicable desire to keep the pendant for himself. This yearning went against all the principles he willingly embraced, but he knew he could not part with it under any circumstances.

He walked through to the bedroom, opened the drawer of his bedside cabinet and nestled the ivory container there, safe, he hoped. There it would remain until he worked out a plan.

Gary’s voice on his cell phone was much improved on the previous evening.

You sound a bit better.

Yeah, look, I thought we could have dinner, are you free tonight?

Have you got anywhere in mind?

My place. I’ll treat you to my culinary masterpiece.

Since when could you cook?

Surprising what living alone does to a fellow... necessity being–

Spare me, please! So where are your digs?

Rick jotted an address on a notepad, all time wondering about Gary’s cooking skills. He sighed; if the worst came to the worst, he could slip into a restaurant on the way home or grab a sandwich at the Bread and Meat. Except it closed at 8 pm now he thought about it – another sigh.

Cheeseburgers with a difference, old son! Gary greeted him at the door. That’s what’s on the menu this evening, with fine music!

Have you got a good sound system?

I never go anywhere without my Soundlink, he pointed to a small Bose device.

"What? That can replace a hi-fi system?"

Sure, listen up! Gary scrolled down his smartphone and instantly the room was filled with jazz music. The sound was incredible from so small a piece of equipment.

Brilliant! Who is it?

"Paris Blues by Dave Whitford."

The sort of music to seduce a girl by. Hey, you haven’t gone–

Gay? No chance, dear boy, and you aren’t my type!

"That’s a relief! They’re a great band, I must admit. Here’s a bottle of vino collapso I picked up."

Much appreciated.

Rick hoped it was, because, despite the joke, he had paid way over his usual red wine budget. He handed the bottle of Monti Selezione Barolo 2013 to Gary.

Mmm! Fourteen and a half alcohol by volume. Should suit us, old son. It’ll do fine with my cheeseburgers.

Rick tried to keep his thoughts from showing. A decent wine with sodding cheeseburgers! He’d had succulent steaks in mind when purchasing it. He should have known better with Gary.

His host led him through to the sitting room. Any thoughts of eating at a well-laid table fell like a grouse shot from the sky.

I’ll open the wine and heat up the burgers.

He returned carrying the Bose device and two glasses in his other hand. Again he disappeared only to return with the opened bottle and his phone. Music caressed the room and Gary filled the glasses with the deep red liquid. Rick sighed contentedly. With this wine and music, the evening would not be a complete disaster. Little did he know at that moment…

A few minutes later, Gary returned with two plates bearing cheeseburgers wrapped in napkins.

Careful! The cheese will be scalding.

There’s a delicious aroma, Rick admitted. What is it, mushroom?

Yeah. But I can’t remember the name, he lied.

Appetite aroused, Rick devoured his burger, keeping pace with Gary’s renowned speed eating. He had to say, the burger was much better than he had feared. Washing it down with the splendid Italian wine, he leant back in his chair to the mellow notes of music he recognised from the evening in the Hidden Rooms.

Within half an hour they had finished the bottle and Rick felt slightly drunk but decidedly relaxed. Gary was droning on about his job in Louth as a Sales Training Manager. The tricks of merchandising didn’t interest him as much as the trick Gary had pulled on him. The effects were beginning to kick in. Realisation dawned as the doorframe began to warp before his eyes and the LED light on the Bose developed a halo.

His words slurred as he accused his host. They were bloody magic mushrooms, weren’t they?

Are they working? Gary grinned.

Why didn’t you tell me?

Rick heard his own voice as if uttered by another and began to giggle.

Just relax, man, go with the flow.

The music was brilliant, taking on an intensity not grasped before, and he listened to the notes with a sense of their profound cadence and depth. All right, so be it. Duped, but he might as well enjoy the experience and settle the score another day. He stared at the floor that was rippling. Maybe Gary’s use of the word ‘flow’ was to blame. Rick did not do drugs and did not approve of others doing so. He did not like to lose control of his intellect and perception. Gary had taken his choice from him and he would make him pay, but for the moment, every time the bass player played bottom E, the room turned purple! It was weird!

Rick lost all perception of time and when he finished tripping, his watch showed 1:30 am. And he had a raging thirst. Gary was sitting with his eyes shut and looking paler than usual. Knowing him, he had probably ingested twice the amount of psilocybin mushroom. His co-ordination suspect, Rick tottered through to the kitchen and swung open the fridge. There were two cartons of orange juice, likely bought for the purpose. He took one and placed it on the table before searching for scissors and a glass. He snipped the corner of the carton and filled a glass, draining it in a second. Operation repeated, he poured a third, quaffed it and vowing to sort Gary out some other time, he overcame his intense drowsiness to stride out and head home for bed.

2

GRAHAM CLARK LABORATORY, CAMBRIDGE 2011

Rick walked past the elegant glass entrance of the Hilton Hotel and slowed in front of the more austere facade of the Archaeology Department on Downing Street. Discreet enquiries had led him to choose the Graham Clark Laboratory for Zooarchaeology among the nine laboratory options available.

The premises located, questioning led him to a Dr Esme Drake, an attractive strawberry blonde whose oval face and brown eyes brought their considerable charm upon his person.

Clumsier than usual in the presence of a comely scholar, Rick struggled to explain his query in a lucid manner.

I have an ivory artefact I’d like to know more about and I would like to conserve it correctly.

Yes? Her gaze was disarming.

I...um...have it here. He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the handkerchief and lint package. I’d like to know about its age, cleaning and repair techniques. He held out his hand to pass her the pendant but she did not take it; instead she was turning away without a word, leaving him feeling foolish with an outstretched hand.

Gloves, she said over her shoulder by way of explanation. A drawer opened smoothly from where she took a pair of white cotton gloves and pulled them on. That’s better, and her smile revealed a row of perfect white teeth.

Rick felt a frisson of desire course through him and at once felt ashamed. He prided himself on his relationship with the women he encountered, always based on respect and good manners. So why did Dr Esme Drake have this effect on him? After all, he had not met her before. His cheeks burned as he handed the package to her. Carefully unwrapping the object, she held it delicately in her white-gloved hand.

Excuse me, I’m terrible with names...

Rick. Rick Hughes, philology, studying for my doctorate.

Pleased to meet you. Do you have any idea what this is?

I’d suggest it’s an Anglo-Saxon reliquary pendant.

But you’re afraid it might be a modern forgery?

I sincerely hope not but that’s partly why I’m here.

She gestured for him to follow her and led him to a workstation past a woman in a lab coat who was bent over an electronic microscope. On the white Formica top stood a piece of equipment plugged into a wall socket. Dr Drake flicked on a switch and turned to Rick, First stop, an ultraviolet examination. It’s non-invasive and will reveal whether our pendant is ivory, or not. If it fluoresces bluish-white then we have a positive result. As she bent over to inspect the outcome, Rick glimpsed her gold filigree earrings. Shaped like a clasp on the outside of a Saxon purse, they pleased him as much as everything else about her.

See for yourself, she beckoned as she straightened. It looks the right colour to me. Not a hint of dull blue, so no plastic content. It could well be walrus tusk but I’ll know better when I’ve cleaned it. She conducted him to another area, explaining her intention. It’s so dirty and very fragile, so I’m going to use WA paste.

What’s that? He wouldn’t have asked as he wanted to mask his ignorance but he was concerned for the pendant.

A near-neutral pH, anionic synthetic surfactant and wetting agent with excellent detergency, emulsifying, and dispersing properties, she replied coolly, her scientific language increasing his growing feeling of inadequacy. Best thing for the job.

She mixed a product from a white bottle in a beaker of mineral water and bathed the artefact in the resulting foamy liquid, agitating it gently. When she was satisfied, she rinsed the pendant and gave him a triumphant grin. One minute and I’ll dab it dry. Triumphant, she held it up for him to see the transformation. The dirty cream-yellow was now a resplendent cream-white. The carved figure of Christ seated on a rainbow stood out in clear relief but what interested Rick was the now legible inscription. He reached out to pick up the pendant but her gloved hand closed over it.

Sorry, you’ll have to wear gloves, Rick. Now, more than ever, it will be susceptible to staining from the natural oils in the human skin. She tucked her hair behind an ear and stared at him.

Of course.

Over there, she indicated the drawer from which she had taken hers.

He found a number of transparent plastic packs and chose one marked Large. Impatiently, he ripped open the packaging and put on the contents. Dr Drake passed him the pendant and he murmured, I was right then.

What?

Her head came close to his and he could smell the fragrance of clean shampooed hair.

It’s Old English. Excuse the pronunciation, he read without faltering.

And that means?

"What is hidden within, release us from sin. Which, I think, confirms that it contained a reliquary."

A saint’s toenail? Was there a hint of mockery?

Or finger bone or a sliver from the true Cross. We’ll have to inspect the interior.

The hinge is set to fall apart on us, I’m not sure we should try.

"Perhaps not. What about dating it?

Dr Drake sighed, "I’ll be frank with you, Mr...er...can I call you Rick?" She tilted her head and smiled.

Please do.

It would be a pity to C14 date it here. That would necessarily mean damaging the ivory. With traditional carbon dating, we’d have to remove a sample, dissolve and burn it. There is a new method but it will require a plasma chamber – and we don’t have the equipment.

So, where–

The Americans were the first to use it. Now there are two places in the UK. Oxford and Fife. I don’t suppose you’ll want to trek up to Scotland?

Erm, not if I can slip over to Oxford.

Let me make a call. She reached into her handbag, a fashionable rucksack style, and rummaged around before taking out a cell phone. Halfway through the call, she addressed Rick, Can you make it to Oxford this afternoon?

I can!

Arrangements concluded, she smiled took a notepad and wrote: Prof Christopher Thomas, Oxford Radiocarbon Accelerator Unit (ORAU) Archaeology Department, Dyson Perrins Building, South Parks Road.

Chris is a lovely guy, you’ll find him helpful. She held out a hand, still gloved, Rick took it and met her unwavering gaze.

I’m so grateful. Words seemed to fail him in her presence, conscious of her small hand in his.

You will let me know, Rick, won’t you?

Of course, it’s the least...

It’s morse, by the way.

That threw him. What did she mean?

A mischievous smile preceded the explanation, Morse. The name given to walrus ivory. The tusks likely were from an Atlantic walrus. I’d better not delay you with a long account of how I know, maybe another time?

Was that hope or a hint in her voice? Rick needed only the slightest excuse to renew his acquaintance with the lovely lady. Reluctantly he let go of her hand, so warm in his, and took his leave.

On the drive home from Oxford early that evening, he thought little about Prof Thomas and very much about Dr Drake. Nonetheless, he was aware of the object nestling in his jacket pocket. He ran over the afternoon’s events again in his mind. The technology behind the plasma extraction 14C analysis involved an electronically-charged gas slowly oxidising the surface of the pendant to produce the carbon dioxide to get the half-life reading. The result gave a date of 650 AD, plus or minus forty years. Rick looked forward to contacting Esme Drake with his news since she had jotted her number on the reverse of the paper with the ORAU address. As he concentrated on the traffic, he smiled at how he had elicited that Prof Thomas was married and that Dr Drake meant nothing to him other than being a respected colleague.

Settling into his armchair, Rick added Dr Drake’s number to his contacts, checked the time and, taking a deep breath, tapped the phone icon.

She answered with the same cool, languid voice of the laboratory and he hastened into a professional description of the analysis and its result.

So given its provenance, it was almost one hundred years old when it was lost, he concluded.

You didn’t tell me where it was found, she said.

That’s a long story best told over dinner and you still have to tell me about the walrus.

Are you asking me out, Rick? There it was again, that slight mocking tone. She was ahead of him in her career and he guessed four or five years older. While the former did, the latter did not bother him. Would she turn him down? Nothing ventured...

To be honest, I’d love to see you again, Dr Drake.

On one condition.

Yes?

You call me Esme – Dr Drake is so formal.

Luckily she wasn’t there to see his expression and he tried to keep better control of his voice. With considerable effort he became calm, agreeing to the appointment. She ended the call and he found his heartbeat racing. Rick had a string of hearts to his name but no other woman had affected him to this extent. What was it about Dr Esme Drake?

Next on the agenda was an argument with Gary. He was still sore about a non-consensual ingestion of drugs. Had anyone else but Gary played that trick on him, their friendship would have been over. Nobody had the right to interfere with the chemistry of his brain – unless that person was Esme, of course. Anyway, hormones were one thing; psilocin, with its psychedelic effects, quite another. Rick brooded; it was more the principle. After all, he had come to no harm. The strength of their friendship was being tested. When he thought back on their student days together, Rick could not help but smile.

One of his favourite memories was of a canal holiday. They had moored beside a small canal-side pub – he forgot its name – but remembered how they’d entered, desperate for a pint, only to find the place all but abandoned. The sound of a television came from a room behind the bar where someone was watching a soap opera.

Anyone there? Gary had bellowed.

Just a minute, duck. The voice of an old woman half-drowned by the television drifted through. She waited until the adverts and came slowly to the bar.

Yes? What can I get you?

Two pints of bitter.

Without a word, the arthritic creature crept to a door at the side of the bar and disappeared downstairs to a cellar.

She’s eighty if she’s a day, Gary hazarded.

Rick smiled at the recollection. How they’d felt guilty at her laborious climbing of the stairs with a huge enamelled jug in her hand. He chuckled at the memory of her hurrying to pour the ale so she wouldn’t miss the drama after the adverts. How they’d agonised about whether to ask for another two beers, knowing what it cost her to scale the cellar stairs.

Typical Gary, he’d double-checked on the poor dear and seized the jug before disappearing into the cellar himself and returning with it brimming with beer. Rick would never have done that but it was why they got on so well. They say opposites attract and it’s true of friendships too. Of course, they paid for their beer and Gary even received thanks from the delightful old lady. The pub had been her grandfather’s and as far as they could see, had not changed at all for modernisation. He wondered whether she was alive and whether the pub was still open for business.

When he joined Gary for a beer later that evening, he reminded him of that holiday and the good times they’d shared before tearing into him about the mushrooms. He was pleased that Gary accepted he was at fault, because he couldn’t stand people trying to justify their wrongdoings. Rick explained what he had discovered about the pendant and Gary outlined the plans of Sheffield University for the site. He promised to keep Rick informed. They parted, always friends, with Gary set to return to Louth the next day.

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2016 AD

The five years that passed between what Rick later recognised as the two key events that were to revolutionise his life were filled with significant events of their own. Intellectually, he was fulfilled by obtaining his PhD. He was especially pleased with his thesis on the eighth-century poem The Ruin - composed of forty-nine lines, some of which are illegible, and his analysis and reconstruction of the opus. The poem evokes the helplessness at the hands of time and inevitable destruction and decay – an argument close to Rick’s heart.

Emotionally, he was shattered. His wooing of Esme Drake had hit the rocks of careers, hers and his. Whilst he was sure he loved her, she had shied away from commitment, seeking academic fulfilment at Cambridge. Her frustration at not becoming a lecturer and renewed determination to achieve her aim drove her from his arms and into ever deeper research duties. Without the distraction of a girlfriend, Rick’s own explorations had been favoured and his results proved duly brilliant. Was he to follow in her footsteps and try for a lecturer’s post? Could he face the prospect of a life without Esme? These were the dilemmas facing him when the phone call that was to change his life came from Gary.

At the Little Carlton site, nurtured by the Lincolnshire’s Finds Liaison Officer and Gary Marshall, many more metal finds from the plough-zone were recorded which could be dated from the Middle-Saxon period. Gary informed him of each new piece in an increasingly exciting jigsaw puzzle, complemented by the several thousand sherds of both Ipswich ware and continental ceramics. There were also domestic and luxurious items, from whetstones and loom-weights to fragments of glass.

Rick, we’ve found an important settlement here. This was a community that enjoyed the finer things in life, Gary could not keep the excitement out of his voice. "Do you know what I discovered last week? A superb glass counter decorated with colourful, twisted strands. It was probably set in a bronze bowl. These people were literate, Rick, I’ve unearthed sixteen stylii in total. Why I’ve rung you is to invite you to the opening of a re-enactment on the site – you can find out about the event on Facebook. It’s a Lincolnshire branch of the Regia Anglorum. They’ve had permission from the landowner to recreate a number of houses on the site. It’s very impressive and they will put on a display for the public next Sunday. Think you can make it?"

Rick asked for more details of the Lincolnshire group, checked them out on Facebook and rang Gary back to arrange their meeting. Gary would pick him up at Lincoln station for the drive to Louth on Saturday. Rick did not own a car. He could reach everywhere by bicycle in Cambridge and the city was well connected by public transport.

In the car during the thirty-mile drive to Louth, Gary expanded on developments at Little Carlton.

I’ve found a number of coins, mostly sceattas, spanning 680-790 AD, though there were several broad pennies showing occupation of the site into the third quarter of the 9th century.

That would be the time of Viking raids, Rick mused, I wonder...

Gary continued, We’ve made a detailed map of my finds and there’s a clear cluster of Middle Saxon material tucked tightly where the medieval parish church of St Edith once stood. The fork of two rivers marks the limit of artefacts to the north. My finds diminished rapidly to the south, once I moved beyond the road. As I explored these patterns further, several unusual aspects of the landscape began to make more sense, Rick. My signals dropped off as I moved further from the road. Our survey of the landscape revealed that it was not only the number of discoveries that was becoming lower as we looked south but also the level of the land itself.

Rick was interested, Do you think the two might be linked?

Analysis of the names of these ‘unproductive’ southern fields, as recorded on 19th-century maps, suggests that they might be. In 1820, these areas were known as ‘Little Fen’ and ‘Horse Fen’, suggesting low-lying marshy land unsuited to settlement. This might explain why we found no sign of occupation – even though today the fields are dry, having been drained by post-medieval farmers to reclaim the land for agricultural use.

Of course, Rick knew enough about land reclamation in the area.

To the north, at the meeting of two rivers where finds also petered out, we found another marshy field-name: ‘Engine Fen’. The land that these fields surround – which saw the focus of our finds, and later housed the parish church and post-medieval manor house – was noticeably higher. I believe it must have once created a habitable island rising out of the medieval marsh.

An island? It would explain why the people chose the site and if you are right, Gary, why they were reasonably wealthy and educated. They would have been safe there. So what do you think? A monastery or a trading centre?

Or both?

Could be. I’m looking forward to seeing this re-enactment.

They spent the rest of the trip talking about the growing enthusiasm nationwide for re-enactments of the past.

After a comfortable night in Gary’s house, his host in a dressing gown greeted Rick with, Come on, old pal, time to get dressed. Your costume is on the chair, he waved a hand at a pile of clothes.

Costume?

Didn’t I tell you? We’re taking part in the event. More fun than just watching. So get a move on or we’ll be late for the organising.

Rick slipped out of bed and examined the garments. It did not take long to work out the sequence of dressing even if he felt peculiar in an Anglo-Saxon tunic, breeches and shoes laced up with thongs. He scrutinised himself in a full-length mirror and brandished an imaginary sword. The effect was striking and he really looked the part. As an afterthought, he went to his jacket and pulled out the reliquary pendant. He had fed a leather thong through the hole at the top to wear it around his neck on some special occasion. What better than at an Anglo-Saxon re-enactment? He slipped the thong over his head and let the pendant slip under the neck of his tunic until it lay in the hollow of his chest.

I’m ready!

Me too! Gary stepped out of his room.

You look more Saxon than me, pal, Rick smiled and for devilment said, It’s time, let’s go, but he said it in Old English.

What?

Some Saxon you are! You can’t even speak our language.

Humph! It’s time to go.

That’s what I said, didn’t I?

With just over one hundred inhabitants Little Carlton possessed few houses, but Gary drove past the buildings and followed a sign for the re-enactment into a field where other cars were parked. What stranger sight than to see two Saxons getting out of a Ford Fiesta!

This way. Gary led his friend to a five-barred gate giving access into another field. Rick trudged behind with an unsettling sensation of déjà-vu but did not say anything about it to Gary. As they strode up a small rise, he heard the sound of voices and laughter. The pleasant aroma of wood smoke wafted down to him, coming from the three houses made of wood and escaping from holes in turf-covered roofs.

The houses look like what we’ve been taught is the real thing.

Wait till you see inside, Gary remarked.

In the first house, two women with headscarves held in place with headbands were cooking a delicious smelling soup. They were dressed in simple undyed woollen dresses they had made from cloth they had woven themselves, Just like Anglo-Saxon women, they both said with pride. In truth it was too dark for Rick to appreciate their handiwork, so he excused himself and ducked outdoors to look around the rest of the small site.

The re-enactors surprised him with their dedication and knowledge of the period. Tired of chatting and feeling more than ever unsettled, he wandered to the edge of the field to be alone for a few minutes. His head was aching and beginning to spin a little. The thought occurred that he might be ailing. In an unconscious gesture, he plunged his hand inside his tunic and fingered the pendant.

At once, the strangest sensation of dizziness overcame him. The air around him vibrated and whirled. Would he be swept off his feet? The trees behind him blurred green as they spun and the air became opaque like a steamed-up mirror. Then the ‘mirror’ cracked and the gap created widened while all else swam around. But the scene within was firm and well-defined, while the outer, opaque part, swirled like an impenetrable fog. Desperate to flee from the inexplicable mist, Rick stepped boldly on the reassuringly solid turf and that was when he blacked out, and the uncertainty and terror of an epoch far from the present became an ominous reality.

3

LITTLE CARLTON 870 AD

Rick’s eyes flickered open; to his relief, all traces of the headache and dizziness from moments before had gone. The squawking of raptors captured his attention and he switched his gaze from the weed-infested turf – whose solidity had lately comforted him – to the sky, half-expecting scavengers to be circling over his prone body. A rapid glance told him he was wrong. The cries were coming from over a rise, but to check them out, he had first to stand. For the moment, though, the small effort of straightening restored the sensation of vertigo. Giddily, his eyes strained over the gently rising ground and for a second he doubted his sanity.

Where previously the re-enactors had erected three wooden huts now stood an entire village of houses of different sizes. Was that a hall near the centre? Could they have created a whole settlement in the time he had lost consciousness? But the buildings showed no signs of newness, far from it; the reed-thatched roofs had a weathered aspect. The re-enactment roofing had been made of turf, for sure. How to explain this transformation? His mind rejected the only solution that would make sense. Remembering Occam’s razor – the problem-solving principle from philosophy that the simplest solution tends to be the correct one – as he walked with trepidation toward the village, he told himself that these were the Dark Ages.

He wanted proof of the impossible, but drawing nearer, every perception contradicted his rational mind. Red kites scavenged along the trampled earth road and voices with the cadence of Old English reached him.

Shortly, he met a man carrying a bale of straw on his shoulder.

Good day to you, Rinc.

Rinc? He’s speaking in Old English!

Good day to you too, friend.

Have you heard the news? I have returned from the coast by the Salt fleet.

Nay, good man, I have not. In an instant he was slipping, effortlessly, into the vernacular.

The tall, broad-shouldered ceorl set down his bale with a sigh and fixed Rick with sorrowful blue eyes.

The Great Heathen Army landed in East Anglia and King Edmund marched to resist them. But Ivarr the Boneless captured the King and gave him to his archers as a target. When they’d had their sport, they beheaded him. The ceorl’s voice quavered, May God save us from the fury of the Norsemen!

Where are the Vikings now? His thoughts were a tumult.

In the Fens. The people fled to Medshamstead Abbey, but they are all slaughtered and the Abbey destroyed. The last reports are of the raiders changing direction, the Lord be praised! The sailors argue among themselves about the accounts but they all agree there has been a battle. As to who won it...I know not. Anyhow, I must away.

They exchanged farewells, and Rick watched the man stride away with the sort of confidence in his step that Rick lacked.

Now he had proof the impossible had occurred. He knew not how, but here he found himself, in body and mind, in the Dark Ages. He drew on his studies and recalled the martyrdom of King Edmund in AD 870. In a mysterious way, he, Rick Hughes, had sped back eleven hundred and forty-six years into the past! His stomach tightened at the thought as the implications drove home. He lacked preparation for ninth-century life. As a pacifist – soft and intellectual, he could not even wield a sword. There was so much he had taken for granted in twenty-first century England; he would have to forgo electrical devices, gas, rapid transport, an endless list.

Panic set in. Would he ever find a way home? Then came an awful realisation. That man knew him! He had called him Rinc but Rick did not know the ceorl. What could that mean? Did he belong here? Only one way to find out. He breathed deeply but wished he hadn’t – that was another thing he would miss, a decent sanitary system with sewers. Thank goodness he didn’t need medicines. Striding in among the houses, he smiled at a woman in a faded yellow dress and white headscarf, who called out Greetings, Rinc.

He waved and moved on with determination, fascinated by the sights, smells and sounds of the Saxon settlement. This was superior to any re-enactment: for better or for worse, it was the real thing. Without a clear sense of purpose or direction, he supposed the largest building, maybe the village hall, was attracting him. He did not reach this construction because a familiar face emerged from a doorway three houses or fifty yards away – did they measure in yards in 870? – before he arrived.

Rinc! Back so soon?

Esme! What are you doing here? He gaped like an idiot for there stood, verily, Doctor Esme Drake from the Clark Laboratory for Zooarchaeology.

Rinc, are you well?

All the better for seeing you, but how come you are here? I didn’t know she spoke Old English!

Esme looked worried and bit her lower lip, her anxious eyes scanning his face. Then she giggled.

Stop it, you fool! You’re teasing me. Now, what besets you? Tell me why you are home so soon, husband.

Home? Husband? Rick wanted to flee but he had the same warm feeling he always experienced in the presence of Esme Drake. She was an identical Esme, just not a Drake, he presumed. And she was his wife!

Remind me, Esme, where was I supposed to be? I know not what became of me this morning. It is as if I lost all power of thought.

The concern on her face warmed his heart and he allowed himself to be drawn indoors, delighted at her handclasp. She spun into his arms and placed a kiss on his grateful lips. He responded in full.

She broke free and gazed into his eyes, Remember, you set out with eel snares, but you must have laid them to return without.

Rick considered that he would have to play along or risk frightening her. This would gain him time to reflect on the enormity of what was happening. Meanwhile, he was far from averse to Esme’s kisses.

My love, I remember now. In reality, he remembered the streams on Gary’s OS map. I went to the stream, he took his bearings and pointed, over yonder.

As usual, then?

Ay. He began to gain in confidence about his command of the language but then Esme frowned.

You said you lost the power of thought? Your voice has changed too.

How so? He worried; would she unmask him as a fraud?

Little things, the way you say some words. Are you sure you are well, dear heart?

Truth be told, I feel more than a little strange although in rude health.

She began to gather bowls, I have made a bone broth with red clover, nettle and burdock. It will restore you to your old self in no time.

Rick favoured slow-cooked foods but this dish sounded anything but appetising. He shuddered at the thought of all the favourite meals he would miss.

The goodness of Esme’s recipe eclipsed the charm of eating from a wooden bowl and using a spoon of the same material. When he looked up he met her brown eyes full of fondness, pleased at his enjoyment of the meal.

It’s very good.

Their domestic bliss was broken when the door opened and in walked – Rinc!

All three stared in amazement. Rick, who was astonished at seeing his double, at least had an explanation of kinds to help overcome the shock. The other two stared fearfully at each other. Esme made a sign of the Cross and sank back on her seat.

What devilry is this? cried Rinc.

Rick fought the desire to blurt out the truth since it was so incredible. He sought frantically for an alternative but could find none, only a lame, I’d better go.

Ay, that you had! You changeling! Rinc had found an explanation to enlighten them. This is elfin magic, by God! Has he laid hands on you, wife?

Esme’s hesitation was almost fatal. Rinc’s eye went to a nail in the wall where a seax hung by a strap. But Rick moved faster, grabbing the weapon and, with no intention to harm, raised it above his shoulder as he sprang for the door. Rinc shrank back and clutched Esme, giving Rick valuable seconds to flee.

Glancing up and down the road and delighted to see it deserted except for kites and mangy dogs, he ran in the direction from whence he’d come. Rinc emerged to raise the alarm and the curs began to bark adding to the din of Rinc’s shouts. It took precious moments before menfolk appeared to begin the chase. By then, Rick was well ahead across the wild meadow grass and had almost reached the field boundary when he tripped. In the fraction of a second that he lost his balance, his first thought was for the fragile pendant around his neck. If he fell on it, it might be destroyed, so with his lurching stride somehow righted, his hand closed over the delicate object to protect it. At his touch, the air around him began to ripple and the mist began to form, billowing around him, as a heavy stone flung by his pursuers thudded to ground near his feet.

In panic at the danger, Rick was still lucid enough to realise that the miracle was repeating itself. The air cracked again and he flung himself into the crystal-clear surroundings of the field he had left earlier. Relief could not impede the loss of consciousness and he sank to his knees as an arrow flew over his head, loosed from behind. Rick’s last thought before falling senseless was that the arrow might have taken him through the neck if he’d stayed on his feet. If he got back to his own time, he would be in no hurry to return to the ninth century!

When he regained his senses, Rick lay in bed. The familiar blue and white uniform alerted him, with the pungent smell of disinfectant, to the fact that he was in a hospital. The wearer of the uniform smiled at him and leant over the bed.

How do you feel?

That would take an hour to explain but he was alright apart from a sore left shoulder – he must have fallen.

Not too bad, he managed a brave smile for show.

The doctor wants to see you at once. I’ll fetch him.

A white-coated figure appeared by his bedside. His badge read Dr Morgan, and he greeted him with a smile and a nod.

I gather you were at an historical re-enactment? Can you remember what happened?

The doctor stood and drew the screen around the bed. I need to examine you.

I’m not sure, but I felt dizzy and blacked out.

Mmm. Has this happened before?

No. The doctor sensed his hesitation.

It has, hasn’t it?

Maybe a couple of hours before, but that’s all.

I want you to take deep breaths.

The cold metal of the doctor’s stethoscope pressed into his back.

All clear there. That’s unusual, what is it?

A reproduction reliquary pendant, Better to lie under the circumstances. Doctor, would you mind removing it and putting it on the cabinet? My shoulder hurts. Rick did not want to risk handling it.

Of course. There. Now let’s look at that shoulder. He poked at Rick with latex-covered fingers, squeezed and asked questions. Nothing’s broken, just bruised. I’ll prescribe a cream. Next, he took Rick’s blood pressure and remarked, Normal. Still, to be on the safe side, I’m going to book you in for a CAT scan on your head, Mr Hughes. It’s just a standard precaution. It’s probably nothing; you might have simply had a fall in your blood pressure. But we must be certain there’s nothing untoward. Have you been under stress recently?

Unless being stoned and having arrows loosed at you counts. Rick shook his head.

We’ll admit you overnight. You rest and don’t worry. In due course, you’ll get a letter with the date of the scan. Then I’ll give you an appointment to discuss the results.

Rick wanted an instant discharge but Dr Morgan remained adamant: total bed rest until morning. On the bright side, it gave him time to reflect on what had happened. Everything defied logic and scientific knowledge as he knew it and yet...his experience was real. A flicker of doubt troubled him, so he leant over and opened the bedside cabinet door. There! Tangible proof of his time travel: Rinc’s seax placed diagonally in the cabinet owing to the length of the blade. For the time being, he decided to keep all this information to himself; otherwise his sanity would be brought into question.

So, how had it occurred? On both occasions, he recalled, he had touched the pendant. Some kind of key to the past? No. Too simple. Gary had handled it, Esme Drake had, Prof Thomas too and so had he, without consequences. What was the difference? Location? Was that the answer? Back in the place where it was found? This might be an explanation but Rick suspected more was needed to disturb time. What was he missing? He lay back in defeat and closed his eyes.

Next morning he woke and the nurse came directly to take his blood pressure. She jotted it down and hung a clipboard on the frame at the foot of the bed.

Am I going to live?

You might if you eat some breakfast, she smiled.

The coffee was not really to his taste; Rick percolated Italian coffee at home. Grimsby hospital did not cater to his whims so he gratefully made do with the standard fare. A message pinged on his smartphone. Gary. He would come at visiting time to take him home.

You went missing, old son. Some kids playing in the meadow found you, dead to the world with a long knife in your hand. Where in heaven did you get that?

Rick smiled at Gary, It’s complicated. Can you draw that screen? I need to get dressed.

Yeah, I brought your clothes. I figured you wouldn’t want to parade around the hospital in Saxon garb.

Great. I won’t be a minute.

Clothed, and with hospital protocol completed within half an hour, Rick slid gingerly into Gary’s Fiesta. He had hung the pendant around his neck with trepidation but he remained safely in 2016.

His Saxon clothes and seax, with its illegal forty-centimetre blade, were in Gary’s bag but Rick had extracted a promise to hang on to them. He might need to restore the weapon to its owner – his other self. Rick smiled as they drove to Lincoln station. He resisted all his friend’s persistent enquiries. The time – whatever that signified – was not ripe for revelations.

4

CAMBRIDGE 2016 AD

The negative CAT scan and Dr Morgan’s assertion that there was nothing wrong with his brain did little to reassure Rick. A month had passed since his traumatic experience and thus far he had not spoken to anyone about it. Unless he did, he suspected he would end up in a mental institution. For this reason, he made the decision to call Gary with the intention of confiding in him.

Look, why don’t you come down for the weekend? There’s something I need to discuss with you.

The fact is I’m supposed to be in Little Carlton then – doing detecting work.

For God’s sake, don’t go there!

"What is the matter with you?"

That’s what we have to talk about. It’s urgent!

The sigh from the other phone gave new meaning to ‘heavy’. But to Rick’s relief, it came accompanied with acceptance.

If I set off early I could be with you for lunch on Saturday. I’ll leave the car in Queen Anne Terrace again. Where should we meet?

Can you come to my place? I need privacy and have something to show you that I can’t really wave around in public.

Are you all right, Rick? You don’t sound your normal self.

Not really. That’s why I need to see you. Saturday then, bye for now.

The week seemed never-ending to Rick. He couldn’t concentrate on his research and his leisure activities of reading and listening to music provided no respite as he struggled to give meaning to what had happened in Lincolnshire. The irreverence of Gary, and his flippancy but reassuring common sense, was, he believed, exactly what he needed.

Rick opened his door to the peremptory knock to be faced with a hand extending a six-pack of lager. He took the cardboard confection, soggy with condensation, and carried it over to the fridge where he accommodated the four survivors. The other two he took over to the armchairs, handed one to Gary and simultaneously they pulled the ring tabs to a spluttering hiss and chirped, Cheers, mate!

Settled in an armchair opposite Rick’s, thirst slaked, Gary gazed in disbelief at his friend.

Are you telling me you time travelled? What is this, some kind of joke? We both know that’s impossible.

I can prove it to you. Rick half-rose from his seat but flopped back at Gary’s incredulous expression. Seriously, he added lamely.

"Seriously? Have you lost your marbles, old pal? I think you must have suffered some cerebral