Chapter 4
Four
HARPER
The Baron summoned me to his private chambers on the fifth day of my captivity.
This felt different from the interrogation in the great hall. More intimate somehow, which made it considerably more terrifying. Great halls had witnesses. Private chambers had only the man asking questions and whatever mercy or cruelty he decided to exercise.
The Baron received me seated and without guards, which either meant he felt entirely secure in his ability to control the situation or he wanted me to feel less threatened. I wasn’t certain which interpretation was worse.
In the great hall, surrounded by banners and retainers, he had seemed simply powerful. Here, in close quarters, the scale of his wealth became impossible to ignore.
His tunic was deep blue wool so finely woven it barely resembled wool at all, the cuffs embroidered with silver thread that caught the late afternoon light when he moved his hands.
A mantle lined in vair rested across the back of his chair, soft grey-blue fur imported at staggering expense and I itched to touch it.
Heavy gold rings gleamed against weathered fingers, and the chain at his throat carried a seal carved from dark green stone.
Nothing about him suggested extravagance for its own sake. Every piece served a purpose.
Authority.
Lineage.
The quiet reminder that men commanded armies because other men believed they should.
Even his boots looked expensive enough to start a minor war.
“Tell me what you know about the next ten years,” he said without preamble.
I had prepared for this. Geoffrey had coached me through it, helping me shape answers that were technically true while carefully obscuring the terrifying degree of specificity I actually possessed.
“I know England survives,” I said carefully. “The charter holds in various forms. The monarchy continues. There are conflicts between the crown and the nobility, but—”
“But what?” The Baron leaned forward. “Give me something useful.”
“I know the archbishop grows more powerful,” I said. “Ecclesiastical authority becomes increasingly important in the political structure. And I know the northern territories remain unstable. There are conflicts with Scotland that will—”
“Scotland?” The Baron’s attention sharpened immediately. “What kind of conflicts?”
I silently cursed my own tendency toward specificity.
“The borders shift,” I said. “Scotland attempts territorial expansion. There are wars. But the northernmost parts of England remain English. Eventually the borders stabilize somewhere around the Tweed.”
“How long until that stabilization?”
“Decades,” I admitted. “More than a century, probably. I’m unclear on exact dates.”
The Baron rose and crossed toward the window, his back to me. Late afternoon light caught the silver threading through his hair, making him look older and harder all at once.
“My son believes you can help us navigate the coming years,” he said quietly. “That your knowledge, properly used, could give Thames an advantage during unstable times.”
“Your son is a strategist,” I said. “He’s thinking about how information can be used.”
“He’s thinking with his heart,” the Baron corrected. “He sees a frightened woman in a tower and mistakes sentiment for strategy. Though occasionally the two resemble one another.”
He turned back toward me as I watched some internal calculation settle into place behind his eyes.
“Here is my proposal,” he said. “You will remain at Thames Castle as a guest rather than a prisoner. You’ll be housed properly and treated with courtesy, though you will not leave these walls.
In exchange, you’ll provide information about coming years.
Threats. Opportunities. Political developments. You understand?”
I understood perfectly. I was being reclassified from prisoner to captive. From captive to strategic asset. Materially, this was unquestionably an improvement. Emotionally, it felt more complicated.
“What happens if I don’t know the answer to something?” I asked.
“Then you say so.” The Baron returned to his chair. “I’m not unreasonable enough to expect omniscience. But I do expect honesty. And I expect you to understand that deliberate deception will carry severe consequences.”
“I understand.”
“Good.” He folded his hands together. “You’ll begin by telling Geoffrey everything you know about Scottish movements over the next fifty years.
After that, we’ll proceed through noble houses, succession disputes, territorial shifts, and likely political alliances.
My sons will determine what information is most valuable. ”
“Your sons,” I repeated. “Not just Geoffrey?”
“Geoffrey is thoughtful but hesitant. Aldwin is practical but violent. Together they form a reasonably competent whole. You’ll work with both.”
Wonderful.
Geoffrey I could manage. He had shown me kindness, or at least the closest medieval equivalent available to a man who’d initially locked me in a tower. I understood his motivations well enough to navigate around them.
Aldwin was another matter entirely. He had openly advocated for my execution. Winning him over was going to require a level of charm I wasn’t certain I could sustain indefinitely.
I was moved out of the tower that evening.
First came the clothes.
A maidservant appeared carrying an armful of fabric while I was still attempting to process the fact that I’d apparently been promoted from possible witch to state-sponsored historian.
“You cannot continue wearing those,” she said, staring openly at my jeans. The zipper fascinated and horrified her in equal measure. She touched it cautiously, jerked her hand back when it moved, and crossed herself beneath her breath. “What manner of fastening is that?”
“It fastens with metal teeth,” I explained weakly. “Very common where I’m from.”
She gave me a look suggesting my homeland was clearly under demonic influence. Then she shook out the garments she’d brought.
A linen smock, a russet wool kirtle, and a linen veil. My brain immediately forgot every survival instinct I possessed. The linen alone nearly made me emotional.
Not the coarse rough wool blanket from the tower. Properly woven linen, smooth beneath my fingers with the unmistakable weight of quality fabric. I knew this textile. I’d catalogued fragments of it. Preserved pieces kept under controlled humidity in museum archives.
But those had all been faded to nearly transparent by time. This was new. This was what medieval cloth actually looked like before eight hundred years happened to it.
“May I?” I asked before the maid could stop me.
The wool kirtle was even better. The dye remained rich and saturated, deep russet threaded with warmth I’d never seen survive in museum collections.
Medieval colors faded catastrophically over centuries.
Historians forgot how vivid the medieval world truly was because everything surviving into modernity had dulled with age.
But this—
This looked alive.
“You’re staring,” the maid observed cautiously.
“I study old things,” I said before I could stop myself. “I’ve never seen one so…” New. Complete. Entirely untouched by time. “Well-made.”
Something in that answer must have satisfied her because she softened slightly and stepped forward to help me dress.
What followed was a twenty-minute lesson in medieval clothing construction and the practical reality that women in the thirteenth century apparently required assistance simply existing inside their garments.
The smock came first, then the kirtle, laced at the sides with enough complexity to make me miss modern zippers with near-religious devotion.
Then the veil, which involved a wire frame I hadn’t anticipated and immediately made me feel both ridiculous and strangely appropriate to the century surrounding me.
The maid folded my jeans carefully afterward, handling them with the same caution one might apply to a relic capable of cursing entire bloodlines. She placed them neatly on the shelf.
“Best not discuss my clothing too much,” I said.
The clothing might matter if I ever figured out how to get home. Then again, I didn’t exactly understand how magical time-travel manuscripts operated, so perhaps none of it mattered at all.
The maid gave me one last unreadable look before leaving.
I stood alone in linen and wool and felt something deeply strange settle over me. Historian and subject. Observer and participant. Two versions of myself occupying the same body.
The rooms they gave me occupied the third floor of the keep, above the great hall but below the family’s private chambers. Accessible without being intimate. Comfortable without implying freedom.
There was a proper bed and a window. And a lock I deliberately did not inspect too closely.
Geoffrey found me arranging my few possessions when he arrived later that evening carrying dinner.
“Your father agreed to let you keep me alive?” I asked.
“My father sees strategic value in not executing you immediately,” Geoffrey corrected gently. “That isn’t quite the same thing.”
“And when my usefulness runs out?”
Geoffrey didn’t answer immediately. “Then we hope circumstances change before the balance shifts too far,” he said finally. “Or we prevent it from shifting at all.”
Not reassuring exactly, but honest.
His gaze moved briefly over my new clothing.
“You look less conspicuous,” he said carefully. “The color suits you.”
The words emerged matter-of-factly, almost absentmindedly, as though he’d commented on weather or military positioning rather than my appearance. A second later he seemed to realize what he’d actually said and redirected his attention firmly toward the tray in his hands.
Interesting.
“The Magna Carta succeeds,” I said, mostly to redirect both of us. “King John signs it at Runnymede on June fifteenth. The charter survives long enough to establish the principle that a monarch is bound by law, even if later political instability complicates things.”
“That knowledge terrifies my father,” Geoffrey said quietly. “Do you understand why? He’s spent his entire life believing power comes from force.”
“But not you?”
“I’ve spent years studying strategy,” he replied.
“Strategy eventually teaches you that force alone rarely sustains anything. If power depended only on violence, the most brutal man would always win. Usually he doesn’t.
Something else stabilizes power eventually. Law. Agreement. Systems people accept.”
I stared at him.
“Medieval political philosophy,” I said. “I genuinely wasn’t expecting that from a man who locked me in a tower.”
“And I wasn’t expecting philosophical debates from a woman who fell through time and threatened to destabilize reality,” Geoffrey replied dryly. “Yet here we are.”
He left shortly afterward, abandoning me with a considerably better meal than the one I’d received as a prisoner.
I sat on the feather mattress afterward and allowed myself a small private moment of gratitude. It wasn’t freedom but it was survival. At the moment, that seemed close enough.
Aldwin arrived the following morning carrying hostility like another weapon. “You’ve convinced my father to keep you alive,” he said without greeting. “That makes you either extremely clever or extremely useful. I’m here to determine which.”
“I’m both,” I replied before I could reconsider. “And genuinely from the future, which opens several exciting strategic possibilities for your family.”
“Or you’re a gifted liar with a convincing story.” Aldwin leaned casually against the window frame in a posture so deliberately relaxed it practically announced violence underneath. “Tell me something only a woman from the future could know.”
I considered carefully. Too specific sounded prophetic. Too vague sounded fraudulent.
“In about forty years,” I said slowly, “there will be a king named Henry. He’ll have several children, and there will be conflicts surrounding succession. Eventually one of his sons becomes remembered as one of the greatest kings in English history.”
“Why?”
“Because he’ll be competent,” I said simply. “Intelligent. Effective. He’ll strengthen systems of law and governance instead of relying entirely on warfare.”
Aldwin absorbed that silently.
“If you’re lying,” he said at last, “I’ll kill you myself. I don’t care what my father believes or what Geoffrey wants. I’ll cut your throat while you sleep and tell everyone you attempted escape.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” He pushed away from the window. “You’re treating this like some grand adventure. But this is real. Death is real. And if you’ve manipulated my father into sparing you through deception, I will end it personally.”
He left without another word.
I sat very still afterward thinking about the fact that the man most likely to murder me had also been the most honest person in the castle.
I still had absolutely no idea what to do with that realization.