Chapter 9
We made it to Kirkdale at exactly three o’clock in the afternoon, and I knew it was three o’clock thanks to the sundial above
the doors of the small church on the banks of the creek where we met the man named Piers Gaveston. If it were any other day,
Simon and I would have marveled at the sundial, amazed at such simple tech, and wondered if this church was the same church
whose bells we could sometimes hear ring from the top of the hill behind our smallholding, but this wasn’t any other day,
because this was the day we met Piers Gaveston.
Piers was youthful, clean, and breezy. There was a concerted styling effort in his whole look—the waves in his hair, the buttoned linen shirt, the jewelry—that seemed wholly modern and out of place.
He looked like a teenager, actually—the first teenager I had seen out here that I could honestly say looked like a teenager, not some prematurely aged, ruddy thing.
He looked soft and faux-gallant, bratty, yet somehow in possession of authority over a cavalry of twenty men who had accompanied him.
His accent was laced with a French inflection and he had an easiness about him, a pseudo-intelligence that I instantly felt the need to measure myself up against. He seemed clued in to something beyond everyone else, with eyes that cut through circumstance, and I guess what I’m trying to say is that I felt, for the first time in nearly a year, self-conscious.
Earlier that day I had been crying on the ground with Simon, who had been praying for our lives, but here everything seemed business as usual: you’re late, let’s get a move on, leave that donkey here, take this horse.
Piers briefed us on the king’s movements. His Majesty’s time in the county was short, as he had an audience at Durham the
next day and couldn’t be delayed. His son, Prince Edward, was coming up from Manchester to join with his own battalion, everyone
grouping up and heading to the border at Berwick. “So whatever the king wants you for, it must be important. Don’t waste his
time.” We were briefed on formalities and protocol. Piers was serious enough in his speech with us, but also let out a huge,
cloying yawn. This was just another day at the office.
As we rode out, people gathered on roadsides to watch us pass.
Simon and I had been so isolated, spending most of our time at home, going into the nearest hamlet occasionally or quick trips to Scarborough, but essentially anonymous.
Now I felt the buzzing sensation of being perceived.
Onlookers watched us, noticed the men we were with, noticed our ragged clothes—clothes I didn’t know were ragged until now.
I was certain Piers Gaveston and the other well-dressed men escorting us didn’t have terrified visions of angels or sloppy theories about time travel.
They all seemed to have an insular self-assurance powering their cores, which made them stable, unbothered, eerily modern.
I half expected to look over and see Piers scrolling away on a phone, smirking at something on the screen.
Simon had calmed down a bit but remained stoic. He was quick to subjugate himself, obeying our handlers while still taking
care of me—helping me with my horse, carrying my satchel—and not in a chivalrous, romantic way. There was an element of debasement
to it and I wished he’d stop. Where Piers and the men felt modern, I felt clumsily stuck in the past.
We reached Thirsk late at night. An encampment of canvas tents had been erected on the outskirts of the town and everything
glowed orange from within. Soldiers visited and ate around open fires, others were readying supplies and horses for the next
day’s continuing journey. It was the largest crowd of people I had seen since London and I was reminded again how completely
on the outside of things Simon and I had become. Not that there was an “inside” I could be privy to, but in another life it
was easier to see the world passing me by on a more regular basis. Here it was a shock all at once.
We got off our horses and Piers took us inside a private tent. We were brought food and ale. Simon and I ate in silence until
the tent flap opened and in walked another unmistakable teenager. This one was equally handsome, blond, and his skin was the
smoothest skin I had ever seen.
“Piers!” he cried the moment he entered the tent. Piers got up and ran to him and bizarrely, the two of them kissed. Passionately.
They kissed each other on the lips and embraced. Simon looked up and watched this just like me but expressed not as much surprise.
Piers composed himself and turned to us. “Gentlemen, I present to you His Royal Highness, Edward, the Prince of Wales.”
Simon stood up and I followed. He bowed his head. I did too.
“Prince of Wales. It feels good to say that,” said Piers. He kissed the prince again.
“It feels silly,” said Prince Edward. He conversed for a moment with Piers, then motioned for Simon and I to come with him
out of the tent. Despite his youth, his sense of command was inherent, with no second-guessing. Simon and I did what we were
told and followed him.
The prince locked arms with Piers as we strode through the encampment. He spoke over his shoulder to us. “I apologize for
the disruption to your lives. My father can lose himself in his fantasies and tends to overdo things. You’re not the first
unsuspecting peasants he’s pulled from the muck for an interrogation and you won’t be the last, but you’ve nothing to fear.
He’ll chat for a moment, hopefully not accuse you of anything, then get depressed and send you on your merry way. Just don’t
play into it.”
“Into what?” I said.
“Well, the whole King Arthur of it all. He’s paranoid about these resurrection stories from the Welsh and his suppression
tactics haven’t been the kindest. He dug up the king’s grave and reburied him in England and that’s only made things worse.
My new title didn’t help things either.”
“He thinks King Arthur’s real?”
The prince smiled. “That’s good! Keep that attitude and you’ll be fine.
Just don’t say anything crazy or agree to anything.
Don’t mention Scotland. Don’t say anything about my dead mum.
Don’t be Jewish either, and if you are, don’t say you are.
Just be normal. Try to speak a little better English too. Hell, French if you know any.”
Prince Edward led us to the largest tent in the center of the camp. It was about the size of a circus tent and inside we entered
into an expansive chamber that was a far cry from standard military barracks. Torches and silent guards lined the canvas walls
and there was sleek wood flooring. The space was mostly all one room, but there were curtains and dividing walls that could
be repositioned as necessary to create privacy. There were chests and beds in the corners, rugs and desks. I was overwhelmed.
In the center of the room was a large table, and standing at the table, watching us as we entered, was the king. There was
no mistaking who he was—he was the most naturally occurring instance of a king you could imagine. Of course he was king, he
was the tallest man on earth. His face was long and weathered. His nose was smashed and crooked but artfully, like a battered
Greek statue. His eyes pierced mine with purpose and mission and I felt the orchestration all around him, the machinery of
his days filled with appointments, wars, traveling, ruling. It was hard to believe that Simon and I had been huddled up in
a stone shack through the dead of winter while all this was going on. All these other ways of living.
The four of us bowed—Piers Gaveston and Prince Edward kneeling, Simon and I crouching hesitantly, unpracticed. I heard Simon’s
breath catch on itself. It was like we had approached a sentient hundred-year-old oak tree. The king spoke.
“Clear the room.” His accent was more modern than anything I had heard before.
His voice was low and grizzled. Quietly, the entire perimeter of guards filed out of the tent.
As they left, King Edward reached under the table and retrieved a polished wooden box with gold hinges.
He placed the box on the table and looked at me and Simon, then looked at Piers and held his gaze. “I said clear the room.”
The prince stepped forward. “Father, Piers has been appointed my personal protectorate and I don’t think—”
“OUT.”
Piers Gaveston ducked his head and fled the tent without a word. The prince was left aghast and brattish, revealing every
one of his few years.
We were invited to sit at the table. The prince plopped down next to Simon and me. The king surveyed each of us.
“You’re all children,” he said. “George of Greenwich. Your age?”
I had to think for a second. “Thirty-four, sir.”
“Your Majesty,” the prince corrected me.
The king waved him off. “A man of thirty-four and yet by appearances you must be the youngest thirty-four-year-old I’ve ever
seen. Or perhaps the oldest child. You seem sheltered and protected. Magicked upon or a con man.”
“He’s not Welsh, Father.”
The king raised his hand again to silence his son. The prince flinched and recoiled. Simon and I, for the first time, were
able to share a glance.
The king continued his examination, looking me up and down. “Miraculous generation of wealth. Unseemly, impervious youthfulness.
Predilection toward sodomy, or so I assume based on the feyness—another sign of magicking.” He shook his head. “You’re not
from here.”
“I am from England, yes,” I said. “But I’m not exactly—”