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Paladins
Cavaliers and Roundheads
Book One - For King Or Parliament!
Alien marauders streaked across the sky, firing salvo after salvo at London's defenders. Tom Archer, leaping and dodging among the rubble, returned their fire with his bow. It felt slightly ridiculous to be using such an archaic weapon against these faceless foes with their high-tech armament, but this bow was no ordinary length of yew, or even of aluminum or African hardwoods like modern bows - it was an antique weapon known as the Thunderbow, and the shafts he was firing were 'arrows of the imagination', generated by the bow itself and his own will power.
But although every shot brought an alien vessel screaming down into the river Thames, still more and more came. Tom watched in dismay as, one by one, his comrades fell. The lovely Godiva was first, her unique hair burning to nothingness as she was blasted down. Then the Knight and Squire, their horse-like motorcycle exploding beneath them.
Tom raced to help them, but the explosion took them further and further out of his reach. He could see his teammate Cameo also running towards them, but a strange ray from one of the attacking ships struck her and her glowing two-dimensional form shattered into several pieces and finally disintegrated altogether.
Tom could only gape in horror as a similar fate befell his other comrades, one by one - Firebrand, Lodestone, and even the two battle suited warriors sent by Edward Stacker to join the defense. Lionheart and Prominence went down under a hail of ray-blasts and ceased to move.
Then, to his surprise, a new figure appeared on the scene. Percy Sheldrake, the Earl of Wordenshire, rumbled up in a wheelchair resembling a small tank. He enjoyed a few moments of success, firing what looked to be old-fashioned cannonballs from a huge gun mounted at the rear of the chair, until a falling Gordanian fighter landed right on top of him and blew up.
No! Tom exploded in rage, firing shaft after shaft at the attackers - but for every ship he brought down, three more seemed to appear. Other defenders joined the fray. Three non-costumed individuals rushed up - a middle-aged man, a younger man carrying a guitar and a beautiful young woman. With a cry of "We are the Bat-Squad", they sprouted bat-like wings and flew up towards the invaders ... only to keep on going until they reached the stratosphere, where they exploded like fireworks. Nearby, a group of grounded Gordanians watched the spectacle and burst into spontaneous applause.
He rubbed his eyes. What the hell? This doesn't make sense.
"No, it doesn't, does it? Still, never mind, old chap. Tallyho!" A figure in blue and red flew past. Thank God! thought Tom. It's Superman! He'll save us!
But Superman looked exactly like Ken Hanson, the Scotland Yard detective chief superintendent who was the Paladins' police liaison. And he was followed by a baying pack of hunting hounds. FLYING hunting hounds who wore red capes. And suddenly the attacking ships looked for all the world like foxes. Foxes which were spitting apples at Superman and his hounds...
Uh...??? thought Tom. And as the thought came into his head, the scene started to break up. He felt something hard under his back and realized that he was lying down. And his eyes were closed.
Dear God, he thought. I'm dreaming this. I'm asleep. Which, of course, meant that he was no longer asleep. His awareness of his real position sharpened as he started to regain consciousness. Then suddenly he was fully awake.
He sat up and opened his eyes. He was lying on a long, dark-stained wooden bench or seat, and leaning over him was a man, dressed mostly in black, who peered at him through crude-looking round eyeglasses.
"Ah, ye're awake, my son," said the stranger. "Perhaps now, by God's grace, we'll have some answers about ye and your motley companions!"
Tom took a good look around and it suddenly became clear where he was - well, if not precisely where he was, what sort of place he was in at least.
"This is a church," he said aloud.
"That's right, friend," the man in black said. Tom stared at him. Of course - he was wearing ecclesiastical costume of some sort. Not typical Church of England or even Roman Catholic garb, though. The large, elaborate white collar with its two descending wings was more reminiscent of the sort of uniform a traditional Scottish Presbyterian minister might wear. The man's accent was certainly not Scottish, though. In fact, Tom couldn't quite place it.
"How did I get here?" he asked. "Are my friends OK? Did we beat back the invaders?"
"Invaders?" said the priest. "D'ye mean the soldiers of Parliament? Or mayhap those of the King? Whose side be ye on?"
Tom's senses reeled. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about!" He raised himself higher to take in more of his surroundings. He had been lying on one of the pews, and he could see other figures lying on other benches. One was clearly Lionheart, although his helmet had been removed. There were three others, all covered by blankets, although their heads were visible. He recognized Lodestone, Firebrand and Cameo. They were also unmasked, as (he realized, reaching up to feel his own face) was he.
"All right," he said, swinging his legs to the floor. His head swam as he did so, but he looked the priest directly in the eye. "What's going on here? Where are we and where are the others?"
"Others? I know not of any others, my son. Ye and these four are all who were brought to my humble sanctuary. As for 'what is going on', methinks 'tis ye who owe an explanation. Thy garb is outlandish - 'specially thy young womenfolk. Dost not ye know that the Holy Book commands that women should not garb themselves in men's raiment?"
Tom rubbed his eyes. This guy's speech was WEIRD! What was he - a Quaker or something? But surely Quakers didn't build churches like this - did they? The décor was more like a medieval Catholic church, with painted frescoes and lots of gold leaf. In fact, it did look downright 'olde-worlde'. The only form of illumination other than the sunlight streaming in through the high stained-glass windows was from candles. He couldn't see anything resembling electric light fittings.
"Look, I'm sorry," he said. "I really don't know what you're talking about. But we shouldn't be here. We're the Paladins. We have a job to do out there."
"The Paladins, hey? Traveling players, is it?"
"What?"
"Be ye traveling players, friend? Try as I might, I cannot fathom another explanation for yon costumes. Mayhap you be acrobats and tumblers?"
This is insane! thought Tom. I don't know how we got here, but this fellow is clearly off his head. He heaved himself up to a standing position, holding on to the back of the pew for support as his senses began to spin again.
"This is not wise, my son," said the priest. "Whatever ails ye, I know not, but it is clear that ye and your companions are not well. My sexton found ye lying unconscious in the churchyard and yon others lie in swoon yet. Sit, and I shall send for my wife to bring ye a hot draught. Also, we must find ye more suitable apparel."
"My 'apparel' will do just fine, thanks. I'd like my bow back, though."
"Thy bow and quiver are safe in the vestry, but I will not allow weapons in God's house, my son. What are ye doing?"
Tom was making his way to the pews where the others lay. He pulled the blanket from Cameo. There were a few scuff marks on her costume and, as he had previously observed, her mask was missing, but otherwise she looked unharmed. What had happened to them? Why had he been unconscious? Why were the others still so?
The priest had walked up behind Tom as he examined his teammate. "'Tis many a year since I did see a darkie lass in this shire," he mused quietly. "Hail ye from coastal parts, to have such a one in thy company?"
"Darkie!?" repeated Tom incredulously. "Good God, man, I didn't think anybody used words like that any more! Have you any idea just how INSULTING that is?"
The priest seemed taken aback. "I did not mean to cause offense, friend. But yon maid is clearly of some foreign race. We see little of her kind in England as a rule. Be she thy wife? I have heard of sailors taking native women to wife. Indeed, I once met an innkeeper from Bristol who -"
"I'm not a sailor and she's not my wife!" snapped Tom. "Why did you remove her mask? And mine, for that matter?"
"Truly I have seen mummers and players go masked upon the play-stage, but why dost ye need a mask in the house of God?" asked the priest. "The Lord seeth all."
He took the end of the blanket from Tom's hands and covered her again. "We should, however, cover her lest my sexton or other men come in here. It is not apt that a female's - ah - curves should be so revealed. Indeed, I have never before seen women take up the raiment of players, although it is said that such things are common in France.
"As I said, we are endeavoring to find more suitable garb for your companions. We have clothing donated for the poor, and though you all be quite large, my wife is an adept seamstress and will make necessary alterations."
Tom turned away from him. His head was starting to clear now, but he was starting to lose patience with this strange priest and his bizarre manner of speech. "I told you - we don't need 'more suitable garb'. Our costumes will do just fine."
"But... ah, methinks ye do not understand your predicament. When we found you, it was as ye are now. If ye had any further goods or raiment, whoever attacked ye must have made off with it. And ye cannot wander abroad clothed in such a manner. If the Parliament's men do see ye in such state, then thy lives may be forfeit! I am a broad-minded man, my son, but to a Puritan a woman garbed as a man is little better than a witch!"
Tom started to form a reply, but halted before a word came out. That was the second time the priest had referred to 'Parliament's men'. A horrible suspicion began to dawn upon him. "Is... is there some sort of historical reenactment going on near here?"
"Reenactment? I know not what ye mean." The priest gently sat him down again. "Friend, the army of Parliament, under Sir Thomas Fairfax and Oliver Cromwell, is camped less than ten leagues from here. If ye venture out, ye may well encounter their scouts. It is thus paramount that we make ye appear more normal."
Tom's heart had skipped several beats during that speech. Oliver Cromwell? OLIVER CROMWELL?
"T-tell me," he said, haltingly. "What is this place? And what is today's date?"
"Why, this is the Church of St. Mary and St. Martin at Naseby, my son. And the date is the twelfth of June."
"In what year?" The priest blinked incredulously, but Tom grabbed the front of his black robe and repeated the question. "In what year?"
"Please, my son, remember that I am a man of the cloth," said the priest. Tom released him. "That is better. In answer to thy question, friend, it is the Year of Our Lord Sixteen Hundred and Forty-five. Why dost ye ask?"
As Tom took in the enormous implications of what he had just heard, the priest remarked: "It seems yon lass is stirring." He started to move towards the pew where Rhea Jones, aka Lodestone, lay.
Uh-oh, thought Tom. If he sees her eyes before I've had a chance to prime her on what's happening, it could mean trouble. This is an age where they still burn witches at the stake, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out what someone from this era - particularly a churchman - would make of someone who can see with eyes which lack either iris or pupil!
"Er... perhaps, then, you'd best go get those clothes you mentioned, Father, uh..."
The priest's eyes widened in alarm. "Nay! Not 'Father', young man! No Papist am I!"
"I'm sorry," said Tom. "I don't know what to call you. My name's Tom Archer." He held out his hand.
"Master Archer," said the priest, taking his hand with an accompanying nod of his head. "I am William Cobblepot, rector of this parish these twenty-two years."
"Good to meet you, Rector," Tom said. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhea's eyelids flickering. Lionheart and Cameo also seemed to be stirring. "Those clothes?" he added, steering the Reverend Cobblepot away from his companions.
"But of course, my son. I shall attend to it straight away. You, er..." He glanced questioningly towards the others.
"I'll still be here when you return, never fear," said Tom with a reassuring smile. "I'll tend to my friends as they awake."
"Of course, of course," said Cobblepot, skipping away in a curiously birdlike fashion.
As the rector left, Tom turned towards Rhea and shook her gently. "Rhea! Are you OK?"
"Ummmm... no, don't wanna get up yet ... what??" Rhea suddenly sat bolt upright. "What happened?"
"Take it easy," said Tom. "I'll explain where we are and what our situation is when I've checked on the others, but for the moment, I want you to do something for me."
"Uh... what?" She looked around her. "Hey, is this a church?"
"Yes. Listen to me, Rhea. Can you act as if you're blind?"
"Blind?"
"It's vital that no-one except for ourselves realizes you can see. Do you understand?"
"No, I don't. What -?"
Tom glanced nervously around. "There are people here who won't understand how you can see with solid-white eyes, Rhea. They could think you're a witch or something, and that could put us all in peril."
"A witch? Are you serious?"
"Very serious. Now promise me you'll act blind when we're not alone."
"Yeah, I guess. But..."
"Just stay there and if anyone else comes in before I've had a chance to explain, take your cues from me. OK?"
"OK, but..."
But Tom was already moving towards Lionheart, who was moving into a sitting position and rubbing his eyes. "How do you feel?" he asked the blond agent.
Richard Plante, aka Lionheart, stared at him with eyes which didn't seem to quite focus. "Lousy. Bowman? Is that you?"
"Yes. Call me Tom. Your name's Richard, right?"
"Not to you, sunshine. Hey, where's my helmet?"
"I don't know. I suspect it's probably in the same place as my bow and quiver. Look, I know you don't trust us very much, Lionheart, but something extremely weird has happened and we're in a very dangerous situation. Let me just check on Cameo and Firebrand and I'll try to explain."
"You can explain now!" growled Lionheart, gripping Tom's arm.
Tom pulled free. "That sort of attitude will get us all killed!" he said angrily. "Listen, just sit tight and I'll explain as soon as I can. But you must NOT do anything hasty. You have no idea -"
"Bowman? Lionheart? What's going on?"
Tom rolled his eyes ceiling ward. Great! Now Cameo was awake and demanding explanations, too! He looked towards the fifth member of their group. Firebrand was still out cold and showing no signs of stirring. OK, OK. It meant doing it twice, but it might save trouble in the long run.
"Well?" demanded Lionheart, struggling groggily into a sitting position.
"All right," said Tom. "What I'm going to tell you is going to sound pretty unbelievable, but it's the truth as far as I can tell. So listen closely, all three of you, because I don't know how much time I've got to explain before our host comes back..."
***
"You weren't bloody kidding when you said this was going to sound unbelievable!" snapped Lionheart. "We've been thrown back in time? We're in the seventeenth century?"
"I think I believe it," said Cameo, her expression thoughtful. "Look around you, Lionheart. There's nothing at all about the twentieth century in this place. No electric lights - and those candles burning are tallow, not wax like modern ones would be."
"We should stick to first names here," Tom said. "He's Richard, I'm Tom, Lodestone is Rhea, you're Sandie..."
"My full Christian name - Cassandra - would sound more in period," said Cameo.
Lionheart growled. "Don't change the bloody subject." He turned back to Tom. "Listen, Bowman, how the hell could we have come back in time?"
Cameo spoke up before the Bowman could answer. "There was a massive burst of energies, remember? We were trying to disable the entire attacking alien force with one big E-M pulse. The mother ship fired at us just as we did so." She shrugged. "I dunno - maybe the combination ruptured the time barrier somehow, hurling us back over three hundred years."
"And what happened to the aliens?" said Lionheart. "Oh, God - don't tell me they're back here, too?"
"I shouldn't think so," Tom said. "I think the rector might have mentioned if there was a fleet of alien ships attacking. It's the sort of thing that would tend to be noticed in this time."
"OK, OK, no need to get sarky, mate." Lionheart sat back, his expression suggesting he had just thought of something.
"So how do we get back to our own time?" said Rhea. She was looking intently at the still-unconscious Firebrand. "And what about Becca? She looks terrible!"
Tom and Sandie both moved to join her. The young Afro-Caribbean woman felt her prone teammate's brow. "Firebrand was right at the heart of what we were trying to do," she said. "She must have taken the brunt of the blast."
"Is it my imagination, or does she look thinner? A LOT thinner?"
Sandie frowned. "She generates energy by directly converting her body mass. She must have consumed quite a lot in whipping up that big E-M pulse."
"So will she be OK?"
"I really don't know..."
There was a cough from Lionheart. "If I could have your attention, boys 'n' girls, there's something important you ought to know. Assuming we ARE back in the past, as our arrow-slinging friend seems to think, it's essential that we get the hell out of here ASAP!"
"How?" said Rhea. "Do you have a time machine built into that suit of yours?"
"There ARE people in our own time who can time travel," observed Sandie. "Superman, for instance. It might be possible to create something in this time that could be found in ours and tell them where - or rather when - we are. They must surely be looking for us!"
"Assuming anyone even realizes what's happened to us!" said Tom. "And while Godiva, Prominence and the Knight and Squire don't seem to have come back with us, it doesn't mean they haven't been sent back to a different time. Or a different place, of course. Remember, we were in London when we were fighting the invaders. According to the rector, we're in Naseby, which is in Leicestershire if my memory serves me correctly. We must be at least a hundred miles from where we started, if not more."
"The Knight and Squire weren't with us, remember?" said Rhea. "They'd, y'know, gone back to the shuttle to warn the air force to stay clear of our blast?"
With an impatient growl, Lionheart strode up between them. "I'm not talking about getting back to our own time!" he said gruffly. "That's important, sure, but what's IMMEDIATELY important is putting some distance between this place and ourselves!"
"Why?" said Sandie.
"Don't you get it?" He looked at their faces, one after another, but saw only puzzlement there. "Good God, don't any of you know any history? Don't you realize where and when we are? The Bowman said this was June 12, 1645. And we're in Naseby!"
Their expressions were still blank. "Oh, chuffing hell!" he swore. "Look, I'll spell it out. June 14, 1645 is a highly significant date in English history. In two days, the climactic battle of the Civil War is going to be fought just a stone's throw from here. Believe me, we do NOT want to get caught up in it!"
"The Civil War?" said Rhea. "That's crazy! We're, y'know, more'n two hundred years too early for that, and you said we were still in England!"
Lionheart turned and mocked banging his head against a pillar. "Not the AMERICAN Civil War, love - OURS. The English Civil War! King vs. Parliament. Cavaliers vs. Roundheads!"
"Well, why didn't you say so?"
Lionheart glared at her. "Why should I qualify it? Do you Yanks ever refer to 'the American Civil War'?
"Uh, no, I guess not. But I'm not a Yankee! I'm from the South."
"So sue me. The important thing is that we've got to get out of this area or we're likely to get caught between two bloody great armies."
"You're right," Tom said. "We could end up affecting the course of history, and that would be disastrous." He rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Richard - I should have realized. The rector even mentioned Cromwell and the significance of the date still didn't register with me."
Rhea sat down, shaking her head. "Y'know, I don't even know what you guys are talking about! Who's Cromwell? What was your Civil War fought over? Who are these caterpillars and squareheads?"
"Oh, God!" exclaimed Lionheart, turning away in disgust.
Tom sat down beside her. "OK, Rhea, quick history lesson. The English Civil War was basically about 'who rules England?' King Charles I wanted to be sole ruler. Parliament had other ideas. Eventually the row blew up into a full-scale war with Charles' armies on one side and the forces loyal to Parliament on the other. There was a religious element to the conflict, too, and the Parliamentarians were pretty much puritans. The short haircuts and round steel helmets of their New Model Army earned them the nickname of 'roundheads'. By comparison, the King's forces were flamboyant and swashbuckling - or at least their commanders were - so they were called 'cavaliers'."
"Oh, I see."
"The most successful commander on the Parliamentary side was Oliver Cromwell," continued Tom. "This is simplifying things greatly but, in a nutshell, after the Royalist forces were defeated - and the decisive battle will be here at Naseby two days from now - Charles was captured but refused to come to a compromise with Parliament. In the end, they executed him and Parliament tried to govern alone. However, it all started to fall apart and eventually Cromwell seized power himself and became Lord Protector of the English Commonwealth - in effect, dictator. From Charles' death, England was actually a republic until 1660, when his son Charles II was restored to the throne."
"Cromwell was a bastard!" came a shaky voice from behind them. "He massacred the Irish Catholics when they rebelled against him..."
They all turned to see Firebrand trying to sit up.
"Becca! You're OK?" said Cameo. "How do you feel?"
"Lousy. Weak as a kitten. What happened? Where are we? Why the hell are you talking about the Civil War, of all things?"
Before anyone could reply, a door opened on the other side of the church. "We don't have time to explain right now," said Tom quickly. "Look, no matter how odd this seems, just keep still and say nothing until we're alone again."
"Yeah, OK," slurred Firebrand. Then she passed out again.
***
"So how long is it, lass?" said the old woman.
Rhea Jones looked puzzled. "How long?"
The woman patted Rhea's swollen abdomen. "Thy baby, lass! How long are ye with child now?"
Rhea flushed red. "Uh... around five and a half months," she replied, trying hard not to stare. After all, she was supposed to be 'blind'.
"An' yon baby's father? Be he one o' these strapping fellows?" She indicated the Bowman of Britain and Lionheart.
"Ah... uh...!"
The Bowman stepped forward. "Rhea's husband is away, mistress. In, er, in the army."
"Oh? Which one? For the King or the Parliament?"
"The, er, king," said Rhea uncertainly.
The woman's mouth curled slightly at the edge. "Which regiment?"
"Look, what is this, the inquisition?" growled Lionheart. "We're grateful for the clothes, madam, but stay out of our business!"
"Richard!" said Cameo. "There's no need to be rude. Mistress Cobblepot was only making polite conversation!"
"Nay," said the rector. "Master Plante is right, Margaret. Ye have no call to pry into these good folks' affairs. Shame on ye, wife!"
"I apologize most humbly," said Margaret Cobblepot, returning to her task of adjusting the dress which she was adjusting for Rhea.
The Bowman, Lionheart and Cameo exchanged a knowing glance. "Nearly slipped up, there," whispered Becca, who was sitting up on one of the pews nearby, having been helped into a borrowed frock by Sandie behind a screen which had been hastily improvised. She gave a hoarse cough to follow.
The birdlike Rector Cobblepot turned to Tom. "Yon lass is surely consumptive," he observed. "'Tis not right that ye should be considering moving her, Master Archer. "By Jesu, she does not look well at all."
Tom frowned. The priest was right, of course. Becca, normally the most powerful of them, was incredibly weak from her exertions and kept drifting in and out of consciousness. What she needed was a prolonged period of rest and plenty of food inside her to put back the body mass she had consumed in fighting off the alien invaders. But getting clear out of this area had to be number one priority, even above finding a way to get back to the future. If they were to get mixed up in the Battle of Naseby then, as Lionheart had said, it could be disastrous for history as they knew it.
Lionheart was examining his helmet, which had been returned to him when the rector and Mistress Cobblepot had brought their change of clothes to them. Unlike the others, he had not changed out of his costume but had put the ragged peasant suit on over it. He now slipped the helmet over his head.
"Richard," said Tom. "What are you doing?"
"Making sure everything still works," muttered the blond government agent. "It's all right for the rest of you. Without the helmet, the suit is useless."
"Yes - but you're being stared at!"
Indeed, the rector and his wife were staring in utter bafflement at Lionheart's action. "A curious mask, my friend," said Cobblepot. "'Tis like the semblance of a lion's face, methinks. What does it signify?"
"A lion. Yeah," said Richard blankly, taking the helm off again. "That's right. I'm a lion."
"'Tis passing strange that the robbers who waylaid you should not take it. And likewise master Archer's bow and arrows were not stolen. These were most curious thieves, would ye not agree?"
"Right. Very curious." Richard looked at each of his companions. "Is everybody ready? Can we go now?"
Cameo nodded, helping Becca to her feet. My god, she thought. She feels as light as a feather! Just how much of herself did she consume with that blast?
They were all now dressed in the clothes which Mistress Cobblepot had found for them. They were old, ragged, patched and none too clean, but at least it made the five of them look more like natives of this time. Except, thought Sandie, for me! Being black makes me stick out like a sore thumb in this era!
The Reverend Cobblepot did not look too happy with this situation. "Nay, my friends, what is thy hurry? Stay and partake of victuals with us. Yon lass Rebecca looks in dire need of sustenance, and I daresay ye all would appreciate a good meal in thy bellies afore ye go."
"Thanks," said Tom. "That's most generous, but we've imposed on your hospitality enough already. We really need to be on our way. If you could return my bow and quiver now?"
Cobblepot opened his mouth as if to reply. However, whatever he had to say remained unsaid, as the doors to the church burst open and in marched a squad of heavily-armed soldiers!
The rector rushed to meet the newcomers. "Captain! These are the ones! Arrest them!"
"What the hell is this?" blurted Lionheart. He picked up his helmet again.
The Bowman grabbed his wrist, stopping him from putting the helmet on. "No! Not here!"
"Why the hell not?"
"One - this is a church."
"Big deal. I'm hardly worried about offending God. In the words of Freddie Mercury, mate, I don't believe in Peter Pan, Frankenstein or Spider-Man!"
"And two," hissed Tom between gritted teeth. "Things that happen in churches tend to get written down. Get my drift?"
Lionheart stared at him. Reluctantly, he nodded.
Meanwhile, the captain of the soldiers had approached them. He was dressed in a rather flamboyant green and blue uniform with an ornate plumed hat and black thigh-boots. His spade beard and mustache were neatly trimmed and his hair long and flowing. Definitely the king's men, thought Tom. No puritan would ever have dressed like that!
"So - ye be the roundhead spies that our good rector reported, hey?"
"Spies?" said Sandie. "We're not spies!"
"Silence, woman!" The captain glared at her. "A motley collection, this! Two strapping able-bodied men who should be serving their King and Country, an Ethiope or somesuch and two ... I suppose ye are sisters, with the same red hair," he said, studying Rhea and Becca. "A pregnant blind woman and a consumptive."
"Exactly," said Tom, smoothly. "That's what my friend means. If we're spies, we're a little conspicuous, wouldn't you agree? We're no such thing. We're loyal subjects of King Charles."
The captain turned to the Reverend Cobblepot. "How say ye these be spies, Rector? Yon fellow's words do make sense. Spies would not travel with such baggage!"
"Hey, watch who you're calling baggage!" slurred Becca feebly.
The captain ignored her. "Well?"
"Good captain," said the rector, his beak-like nose bobbing as he spoke. "We found them in the churchyard, not dressed as ye see them now but garbed most strangely like acrobats or tumblers in tight raiment made of materials the like of which I have ne'er seen afore. We believed them at first to have been assailed by lawless men, and indeed they affirm this - but lookee, sir - why would robbers not steal yon ornate helmet that the blond fellow carries? Also, the brown-haired wight bore a bow and arrows, which surely foot pads would have claimed as a prize!" As if to illustrate this, Mistress Cobblepot, who had briefly left the main chamber, returned with the bow and quiver.
The captain took the bow from her and examined it. "A good point, Rector." He turned his gaze back on the Bowman and Lionheart, ignoring the three women. "So tell me - if ye be not spies, then what? Why are ye not fighting for our king? And what right have ye otherwise to be bearing arms?"
"The bow was just for defense, captain," said Tom. "It's, er, an antique longbow that once belonged to my grandfather. He fought in the armies of Queen Elizabeth against the Spanish. It takes a great deal of strength to pull it, so maybe the thieves left it because they couldn't use it."
"Or maybe," added Sandie, "they were disturbed by Reverend Cobblepot and his wife and thought the bow and Richard's helmet would weigh them down trying to escape. After all, they'd taken all of our clothes other than the costumes we were wearing..."
"I shall not tell ye again, negress!" barked the captain. "I was not addressing ye, and interrupt again and I shall have ye flogged!"
"Now, look here...!" Richard began.
Tom held him back again. He shook his head as the angry agent met his gaze.
"I apologize for the impudence of my, ah, servant, captain," he said. Sandie looked furious but said nothing. "But she's telling the truth. We're just poor play-actors and tumblers. We're not spies. And as for why my friend and I are not in the army - well, as you can see, one of our sisters is ill and the other expecting a baby. We're their only protection."
"A poor story," grunted the captain. "Where are these strange clothes ye say they were garbed in?"
"Here they are, captain," said Margaret Cobblepot, bringing him Rhea's costume and Tom's.
"We offered them a change of clothing to delay them whilst the verger fetched ye and thy men, captain," said the rector.
The captain took the costumes from her, examined them for a moment and then called one of his subordinates.
"What make ye of these, sergeant?"
The sergeant, a rather scruffier individual whose dark blue uniform was stained and scuffed, felt the spandex between his fingers. He shook his head. "Not like the other fellow wore, captain, but still most queer."
"Even so," the captain mused, "'Tis too much coincidence. Eh, well - we'll convey them straight-away to Oxford. The King will be most pleased, methinks."
"But..." began Tom.
"Silence! Seize them!" The soldiers moved forward and grabbed Lionheart and the Bowman, grabbing the former's helmet out of his hands. They also seized hold of the three women.
"Careful!" protested Sandie as Becca was roughly hauled to her feet. "Can't you see she's ill?"
The captain strode up to her and struck her across the face. "That is enough! To Oxford with them - and this one I intend to teach some humility on the way!"
***
The soldiers picked up pace as they left the churchyard and made their way through the village surrounding it, forcing the Paladins to move along with them. Rhea and Sandie were having little difficulty in keeping up, but the captain had seen Becca's predicament and had ordered one of his men - a big brute of a corporal - to carry her.
Even so, Richard (Lionheart) Plante was visibly seething. "This is crazy," he hissed to the Bowman of Britain, who was trotting alongside him. "I could have taken them inside the church, but now I don't even have my helmet. I've still got my laser sword on my belt - I don't think they realized it was a weapon - but there are too many of them to take on without my suit in fully active mode."
"Look, don't worry about it," said Tom. "There's plenty of time to make our escape, and for the time being we're heading in the direction we want to go."
"Are we? Damn it, man, they're taking us to see King Charles. It doesn't matter which army we're heading for, they're still going to come together in the Battle of Naseby in a couple of days, and we're going to be caught up in it!"
Tom shook his head. "Didn't you hear? When he examined our costumes, that sergeant said 'Not like the other fellow'. What does that suggest to you?"
"I dunno. Enlighten me."
"Well, it suggests to me that there's someone else here dressed out-of-period besides us."
"You mean another time traveler?" gasped Sandie, who was right behind them.
"It's a possibility. And if he's at Oxford with the king..."
"Jesus, Archer!" swore Lionheart. "That means there could be somebody here deliberately trying to mess with history! Suppose... suppose he fills the king in on what tactics the roundheads are going to use? Suppose he even supplies the royalist forces with modern weapons!"
"Right!" said Tom. "It would probably assure the continuity of the Stuart line of kings and have a knock-on effect on history thereafter. Suppose when the American colonies rebel there's a more able monarch than George III on the throne? Or someone willing to compromise with their demands? It could mean the USA never gets founded, and what would that mean for our own time?"
"Bloody hell!"
"Be silent, ye rogues!" grunted the sergeant, who had come back to see what they were talking about. "Or I'll knock some quiet into ye!"
They fell silent. The phalanx of soldiers continued towards a nearby wood, which they skirted around, coming to a small encampment of tents on the other side. The captain, who was the only member of the party on horseback, dismounted. He yelled to some other soldiers guarding the camp.
"He's telling them to strike camp," said Tom. "Obviously he doesn't want to waste any time getting us to the king."
Apart from a few men left to guard the Paladins, the soldiers set about dismantling the camp, loading most of the equipment into two wagons. The captain strode back towards his prisoners. Shoving past the men, he made straight for Sandie. "And now, my black vixen, I'll show ye how we treat insolent heathens like ye in this man's army." He grabbed her arm and roughly hurled her to the ground. "Beg for forgiveness and I may go easy on ye, blackamoor!"
"Leave her alone!" cried Rhea.
The captain snarled. "And ye be next if ye be not quiet, harlot!"
"Oh, BIG man!" Sandie spat, trying to sit up. "Threaten a pregnant blind girl, why don't you?"
The captain offered no reply but an evil sneer as he raised his foot and aimed a kick into her midriff.
At which juncture, she changed.
Suddenly the captain screamed in agony as his foot passed partially through the glowing, white form of Cameo. Sandie leapt to her feet and he screamed again as her energized fist made contact with his jaw.
"Oh-oh. It just hit the fan big time!" said Rhea.
"You can say that again!" said Lionheart. He twisted out of the grip of the soldier holding him, who was staring openmouthed at Cameo, and brought the heel of his hand up to strike him on the point of the chin. The soldier went down and Lionheart tore at his borrowed clothes to reach the stub of the laser sword still attached to his belt.
At the same time, Tom viciously dug his elbow into the midriff of the soldier guarding him and leapt for his bow and quiver, which were lying nearby in a heap with their costumes and Lionheart's helmet. Having no time to string the bow, he snatched a color-coded arrow from the quiver and hurled it with all of his strength into the center of the camp, where it exploded into a reddish-colored cloud of gas.
Meanwhile, Rhea was surrounded by a glowing purple nimbus as she drew upon the Earth's magnetic field to augment her strength and toss soldiers around like rag dolls.
The battle was over in seconds. The soldiers packing up the camp quickly succumbed to the Bowman's knockout gas arrow, while the others were no match for their super-powered opponents and were soon all unconscious.
"Well, so much for remaining anonymous," muttered Tom. "These men are going to wake up thinking they've been assaulted by a bunch of witches and sorcerers - and they'll have our descriptions as such all over the district in no time flat!"
Cameo twisted the rings on her fingers and reassumed the solid form of Sandie Bremmer. "Sorry," she said. "I guess I let my temper get the better of me."
"Hey," Rhea said. "If you hadn't done it, one of use would've. You didn't think we'd, like, stand by and let that thug beat you up, did you?"
"We can analyze the situation later," said Lionheart, who was putting on his helmet and activating his battle suit. "Right now we have to put some distance between us and these people. Lodestone, if I fly under my own power, can you carry the others magnetically?"
"I guess so. Sandie, how's Becca?"
Sandie was bending over Firebrand, who had been sleeping since they arrived at the camp. "Weak, but she's just asleep. She seems no worse than before."
"OK, then, we'll ... WHAT are you doing?" said Lionheart, as the Bowman started walking towards the camp.
"Call it foraging," Tom called over his shoulder. "We need supplies and they seem to have plenty here. My gas will keep these men unconscious for a few hours, so I don't think there's any particular hurry. So are you going to help me or what?"
***
"Aye," said the veteran foot soldier propping up the tavern's bar counter. "They do say yon fellow was most strange in aspect. As tall as ye, my friend, and both ye and thy companion are uncommon tall. And hair black as the raven."
"Jonas do say 'e were a Spaniard," said another scruffy-looking man lounging nearby. "A spy, most like, for King Philip."
"What do Jonas know?" the first man scoffed. "Why would a Spanish spy garb 'imself in such outlandish raiment?"
"How outlandish, friend?" asked the tall, hooded man who had bought the speaker the flagon of ale which he was quaffing with a relish. "What were his clothes like?"
The speaker thought for a moment. "Green, mostly," he said. "Aye, wi' a queer red collar an' funny boots 'o the same hue. Oh... and an amulet 'o sorts at his throat."
"And he spoke in Spanish?"
"Nay, in English o' sorts. Take no heed 'o Jebediah, friend. He pays too much account to Jonas Quimby an' his cronies."
"Now listen 'ere, Eli Brown, Jonas is in the King's own guard," said the affronted Jebediah. "Who should know better but he what goes on in the royal camp?"
"Jonas romances too much," grunted Eli into his flagon. "Me, I was on guard duty when the stranger was brought in - an' not by Jonas' troop neither. I saw 'im AND heard 'im. I knows o' what I speak, I'll have ye ken!"
The tall man who had been asking the questions felt a tug on his sleeve. "I dunno about you, but I sense a punch-up brewing here," he said. "Time to move back a bit out of it, I think."
The questioner nodded and followed his companion to the other side of the taproom, leaving Eli Brown and Jebediah to continue an argument which increasingly included shoving and poking. "So what do you think, Richard?" he asked when they were out of earshot of the soldiers.
Richard Plante shrugged. "The description doesn't mean much to me. Green outfit with red trim and 'amulet'? I can't recall seeing that in Stacker's files on super-villains."
"We don't know he's a villain," said Tom Archer. "In fact, from our friend's account there, he was brought in very much against his will."
"Doesn't mean he's one of the good guys. And who do we know who can travel in time among the super-hero set, anyway? Superman? The Flash? Not in those colors!"
"A Green Lantern, maybe?"
"The GL colors are green, black and white, not green and red, mate. No, whatever side this bloke's on, he must be somebody we haven't heard of. In fact," Richard added, taking a sip from his own mug of ale, "we have to face the possibility that he might not even BE from our own time."
"I hadn't even considered that!" said Tom. "But you're right, of course. It's unlikely that the twentieth century has a monopoly on time travel. He could be from any century! Maybe a thousand years in the future or more!"
"Or not."
"What do you mean?"
Richard set down his mug. "Think about it, Bowman. We hear mention of somebody dressed in clothes as out-of-period sounding as our costumes and we immediately jump to the conclusion that he must be from another time, like ourselves. But why should he be? We know that there are plenty of human-looking aliens out there in the universe. He could be a space traveler from Thanagar or somewhere like that, here to observe the primitive Earthlings or whatever. In which case, he's no help to us at all!"
Tom sighed. "There's only one way to find out. We've got to get to him!"
"Right. And tonight. Tomorrow King Charles and his army march for Naseby. If they take the prisoner with them, it'll be practically impossible to get to him through thousands of royalist soldiers."
"It's not going to be easy anyway. You saw the place Charles is using for his headquarters when we scouted the town out earlier. It may not be a castle, but it's bristling with guards. And we can't just fight our way in. We've been seen by too many people already. A few soldiers getting bested by apparent witchcraft might well go down as a mere tall tale, but super-heroes busting a prisoner out from under the nose of the King of England...!" He blew out a breath of exasperation. "I can't imagine how that could fail to go down in history!"
Richard nodded. "Which we can't afford to happen if we're to get back to our own time without screwing up everything history records in between." He drained the dregs from his mug. "Come on - time to get back to the girls, I think, and see if we can't come up with a plan to spring this bloke in green without getting in the history books!"
***
"I've got to say, I'm feeling much better now I've got some food inside me," said Becca Bennett, wiping the last of her bread around the lip of the tin dish she had been eating from.
"The way you've wolfed all that down, I'd never have guessed," said Sandie., who had been watching the redhead intently. "You're still very pale, though. I'd guess it'll take more than just one meal to get you back to normal."
Becca nodded. "It was very welcome. Tom did the right thing 'liberating' supplies from those soldiers. But I'm still feeling very week, actually. But at least I feel human now. Give me a night's sleep and I'll be OK, I think. I don't have to make up all of my lost mass by eating."
"You don't?"
"No. Once I'm able to change to my energy form, I'll be able to just absorb a rock or something into myself to make up the difference."
Sandie whistled. "That's amazing! I had no idea you could do that!"
"I'm nothing if not versatile," grinned Becca.
"So I see. You know, some time when this is all over, you and I must have a long talk about your powers. You never did tell us how you got them in the first place."
Becca frowned and lowered her eyes. "There's a good reason for that. I don't really know how I got them..."
Whatever she had to say following that remained unsaid as Lodestone descended from the treetops where she had been keeping vigil. "Heads up, gals. The boys are comin' back!"
Seconds later, the sound of muffled jets came to their ears and Lionheart dropped from the sky, carrying the Bowman of Britain.
Rhea sniffed. "Well, I gotta say you guys took your time," she said. "And you, like, smell of beer, an' all."
"Hello, it's nice to see you again, too," grumped Lionheart, removing his helmet and shaking out his blond thatch.
"She's just jealous 'cause you didn't bring her any," quipped Becca.
"Nope. She's ticked off 'cause she's been freezin' her ass off up a tree while you guys have been boozin'!" Rhea said, her southern accent exaggerated by her annoyed state.
"OK, OK, calm down," said the Bowman, once again finding himself in the role of peacemaker. "I'm sorry we were longer than we anticipated, Rhea, but Oxford's no small city to scout even in this time, and we had to get our information SOMEWHERE."
"And what better place than a tavern to find off-duty soldiers willing to talk to us for the price of a pint?" added Lionheart. "We could hardly have plied them with ale and not drunk any ourselves. It would've looked suspicious."
"Whatever..."
"Anyway, did you find out what we need to know?" asked Cameo. "About this oddly-dressed stranger, I mean?"
"We got a description," Tom said, "but that's about all. Neither of us recognized him from it. The only thing for certain is that his outfit sticks out like a sore thumb in this time and place, much like ours."
"But as I pointed out to the Bowman," Lionheart said, "it doesn't mean he's a time traveler. He could be a stranded alien - that's one other possibility anyway."
Rhea considered this for a moment. "D'you know where they're holding him?" she asked.
"Most of the Royalist forces have already left the city, making for a town called Market Harborough," Tom replied. "They only came there in the first place because Sir Thomas Fairfax's army was besieging the city, but he's now withdrawn to the vicinity of Naseby, where the battle's going to take place. King Charles himself is still in Oxford, though, and he's using one of the University Colleges as his headquarters. There are strong vaults under the chapel and he's using them as cells. He's got other prisoners down there besides our mystery man - suspected spies for the most part."
"You didn't get a chance to get in there and take a look at him, then?" Sandie asked.
"No. The place is surrounded by guards, as you'd expect. Richard and I could probably have fought our way in with little difficulty, but we'd rather not risk becoming one of history's mysteries. This is going to take subtlety, not brute force."
"Well, subtlety's my middle name," said Sandie, smiling. "Actually, my middle name's Carmen, but you get my drift!"
"We'll need the power of magnetism on our side, too, Lodestone," said Lionheart. "You up for it, or are you just going to sulk because your bum got chilly?"
"There's no need to be, y'know, nasty. I'm ready when you are."
"Me, too," said Becca, struggling to get up.
Sandie put a hand on her shoulder. "Oh, no you don't. You're safer here, outside the city."
"I'm OK, now," the red-haired girl protested.
Lionheart frowned. "No, you're not! You're weak and your powers haven't yet returned. You wouldn't be able to do anything, and frankly I'd rather not be watching out for you when I should be watching my own back!"
She feigned a mock smile. "That's what I like about you, Plante - your charming personality. Speak your mind, why don't you?"
"He's right, though, if a bit bluntly put," said Cameo. "You're staying right here, honey. Don't worry - if all goes well, we won't be long."
She nodded to Rhea, who formed a magnetic force bubble around them to lift them into the air. Becca watched them go, slumped against a tree. She petulantly tugged at a hank of grass and hurled it into the campfire. As she did, she realized a mouse was sitting nearby, staring curiously at her.
"You looking at me? You looking at me?" she said irritably. She pointed a finger and a feeble spark issued from it, grounding several inches from the mouse, which squeaked in annoyance and ran off.
Oh, great, she thought. I'm literally so weak I can't handle a bloody mouse...
***
The two guards on sentry duty at the side entrance to the chapel of St. Luke's College were bored. Sentry duty was tedious at the best of times, but especially so tonight. There was a battle brewing, and most of their companions in arms had been given liberty tonight to get drunk, go wenching or gambling - even, in some cases, to pray. Whatever they needed to get out of their system before tomorrow's march to meet the Parliamentarian forces. Somebody had to stand guard duty, though, and George Pratchett and Bill Adams were among those who had drawn the metaphorical short straw - although it would be more accurate to say that their company sergeant, who hated their guts, had drawn it on their behalf.
There was little point in complaining about it, though. Duty was duty, and they had, after all, taken the King's Shilling and sworn to obey orders. Failure to do so would result in a public flogging or worse. So they stoically stood in position, ready to challenge anyone who dared to approach the chapel unauthorized.
From ground level, that is. What they did not realize was that three shadowy figures were lurking atop the roof of the nearby college refectory and watching them intently. Furthermore, though it was dark and moon less, two of those lurkers could see them perfectly - one by virtue of the infrared lenses in his helmet, the other because their bodies' magnetic fields shone like beacons to her unique eyes.
"OK, let's do it," whispered Lionheart. Lodestone nodded and made a subtle gesture.
There was a clank at George's feet. Both he and Bill jumped in shock. "S'blood, man," swore Bill. "What was that?"
"Sorry," George said sheepishly. "'Twas my dagger." He bent to retrieve it. "Strange, but I could've sworn 'twas securely in its sheath."
"Well, don't do it again, ye poltroon!" Bill grumped. "It fain near scared me white-haired!"
George grinned and replaced his weapon in the small scabbard on his belt. There was a second clank and both men started again. "Holy mother of Christ!" Bill exclaimed. "Now MY dagger has fallen!"
"And ye had the brass effrontery to call ME a poltroon, ye dunderhead!" laughed George.
Bill scowled as he picked up the knife. "'Tis no laughing matter, man! This is not natural!"
"How do ye - ahh!" George exclaimed out as his cross-belt suddenly dropped to the flagstones. He jumped back. "By God's wounds!" he swore. "Did ye see that? Did ye see it? My belt - it ... it unbuckled itself!"
"Nonsense! How can...?" said Bill as his own belt followed George's to the ground.
Both men jumped back, and then stared in horrified fascination as both belts began to creep across the ground away from them.
And so preoccupied were they with this sight that they completely failed to see a glowing white shape appear behind them and creep through the crack between the double doors and into the chapel.
***
There are distinct advantages to being able to become two-dimensional! Cameo smiled to herself as she crossed the deserted interior, looking for a way down into the vault which was currently serving as a dungeon for the king's prisoners. Her energized form had enabled her to slip inside without any need to open the doors, but the diversionary tactics engineered by the others had been necessary to make them look away - she was the first to admit that she was rather conspicuous in this state.
She quickly investigated a number of side doors. One led to a closet containing the vestments of the choir, while others were store rooms or meant for private contemplation. The last door, though, was more promising. It was locked, and there was the faintest glimmer of light from under it. Well, it's no barrier to me, she thought. She got down and slipped herself under the crack at the bottom, emerging at the top of a winding stairwell.
It was obvious now that there was a lamp or candles lit at the foot of the stairs. She made her way silently down, resuming her human form before the last bend so as not to give herself away by her own light. Peering around, she saw that there was, indeed, a lamp. There was also one obvious occupant - a fat, unkempt guard snoring in a chair. She grinned, resumed her energy-form and crept up to him.
Since gaining these powers, she had been practicing hard in determining the best way to use them, and she knew that her energized touch, which could severely disrupt the human nervous system, was most efficiently applied to the back of the neck. She grimaced at the man's greasy, probably lice-ridden hair, but thrust her fingers into the appropriate spot. He keeled over - not merely asleep now, but unconscious.
Twisting her rings once more, she retrieved the guard's keys and picked up his lantern, her nose wrinkling in disgust as she did so. This place STANK!
Several doors led off this central chamber, which contained a number of sarcophagi and other relics. Presumably a number of these contained prisoners, but which one held the man she sought? She tried a door, lifting up the lantern to view inside. Two wretched- looking ragged men shrank away from her. She locked the door again - she felt sorry for them, but it would probably be a mistake to free them. For all she knew, their being held captive here was important to history in some way. She prayed that it were so, anyway, for her conscience's sake.
Two more doors were opened fruitlessly before she found the man she was looking for. He was lying in a heap, his hands and feet manacled. As the soldier in the tavern had said, he was a very tall man, with black hair, and he wore a kind of green jumpsuit with a red collar and belt, although somewhere he had lost his boots. The outfit was filthy and ragged, but it was still clearly not something that belonged on this world at this time in history.
He blinked against the sudden light. "Leave me alone," he groaned, in American-accented English.
Sandie lowered the lamp. "It's OK," she said. "I'm here to help you. I'm called Cameo."
"Cameo?" He stared at her. "You're wearing a mask - and that's no outfit for this era! Dear God, are you a time traveler? Did Rip send you?"
"I don't know who 'Rip' is, but yes - I am a time traveler, though a reluctant one. What's your name?"
"Jeff. Jeffery Smith." He struggled to his feet. "Look, you can't get these irons off me, can you?"
"No, but I have friends who can. Do you think you can walk enough to get out of here?" He nodded. "OK, then," Sandie said. "Let's waste no time about it. Follow me!"
***
"Well, I'm not going to pick them up," said Bill. "Loath am I to even touch them!"
"We have to, man," said George. "'Sblood, should the sergeant come and find us out of uniform so, we'll be for a flogging!"
"Aye, but they be bewitched, George. Ye saw it, even as I did - they moved of their own accord."
"But has been some small while since and they have remained still," George observed. "Mayhap there is some mundane explanation for this."
"Oh? Like what? The wind blew them off? Aye - and did unbuckle them first."
They both stared at the fallen belts. "We SHOULD pick them up," George said.
"Aye, so ye did say five minutes ago! George, man, if thou'rt so keen, then take the lead. Thy belt be there - stoop and pick it up and will I do likewise. George? What ails ye now?"
His companion was staring at the door. Even in the wan torch light, he looked pale. "A... a hand!" he gasped. "Bill, 'twas a hand! I swear!"
"A hand? Where?" Bill said, puzzled. He looked around but could see nothing.
George pointed to where the double doors to the chapel met in the middle. "There, man! Between the doors! 'Twas ghostly white and shining like some necrous mist!"
Bill snickered. "Talk not such rot! How could a hand reach between the doors? I could not get my dagger's point in the join!"
George grabbed his shoulder. "I tell ye, man, by Jesu, I saw it! Thin, it was - like paper - and its thumb was pointing up like so." He demonstrated a thumbs-up sign with his own free hand. He pulled close to Bill. "Thou'rt right, Bill. This place is foully haunted."
"Then what say ye? Should we flee?"
"How can we? How can we leave our posts? We'd be hanged for desertion if they caught us!"
"Then what would ye have us do? Shall I go fetch the sergeant?"
"And leave me here alone? No fear!"
"Then what? If we stay, we may be damned by ghosts and fiends. If we go, we'll be deserting our posts! George, what should we do?"
"You could start by putting up your hands," said a voice. They stared out in that direction, to see a masked man in ragged clothes striding towards them. In his hands was a longbow, with an arrow nocked to its string ready to fire.
"Who... who...?" began Bill, now more confused than ever. They had not seen the man approach, nor could they imagine how he had got around this side of the building without being seen by the guards at the front or back.
"I'm quite serious, gentlemen," said the newcomer softly. "Put up your hands, and don't even think about crying out an alarm. I can put an arrow through each of your throats before you can even draw breath to shout."
The two hapless guards raised their hands. "Thank you," said the Bowman. "Now, please turn around to face the wall - no, not the door. Move away from the doors, please."
"Who is this fellow? Should an enemy spy be this polite?" whispered Bill to George.
"No talking!" commanded the Bowman. Unable to see anything but the wall now, Bill felt his keys being lifted from his belt. Odd, but the archer could not have closed the distance so quickly without being heard, he thought. He must have had a confederate hiding in the shadows nearby.
A key turned in the lock and he head the creak of the doors opening. "Well done, Cameo," the Bowman said. "Any trouble?"
"No," said a woman's voice. "There was just one sleeping jailer inside. He's sleeping even more soundly now."
"Is this one of the friends you mentioned?" said a male voice, differently accented from the Bowman.
"That's right."
"Don't worry, friend, you're in safe hands. OK, folks, let's go."
There was a rush of moving air, as though the wind had suddenly whipped up beside the guards. They stood still for what seemed like long minutes, but nothing happened. Nor was there any sound. Finally, George could resist it no longer. He looked around.
They were alone. "They've gone," he informed his companion.
"Oh, Jesu," swore Bill. "What are we to do now? We'll be flogged for sure!"
George suddenly reached up to his collar and tore it. "Not if we're smart about it. Rip thy uniform, man, and we'll scuff each other up. If anyone asks, we fought like demons but were overwhelmed by at least a dozen roundheads."
"Aye!" said Bill, tearing his own clothes and rubbing dirt over his face. "That we were. In fact, 'twas more like a score."
"Two score, even!"
"Aye! Even Prince Rupert himself would have fallen before such numbers."
"Mayhap we could even get a commendation for braving such overwhelming odds," suggested George as they ran off to raise the alarm.
"Aye, that we could..."
(to be continued in Paladins: Cavaliers and Roundheads book 2)