30
FINN
A shout came from the far side of camp.
“Stop him!”
Finn looked up from the broken axle he had been repairing. A man was running, one of the other soldiers, younger than Finn, wild-eyed and desperate. He bolted between two wagons and made for the tree line.
For two days, since the order came to move north, Finn had waited, watching the guards stretch thin with the chaos of breaking camp.
He’d lifted three fine tools, one by one, wrapping them in cloth to silence their clank.
The hard weight of them against his ribs was a constant reminder that the time machine needed repairs before he could take Cecily away in it.
Cecily. She would be married by spring, the letter had said. It was spring now.
The guards were converging, boots pounding. The young man didn’t slow. He ran like his life depended on it. The guards were twenty paces behind the deserter now, then fifteen. One raised a crossbow.
Finn looked away before the arrow flew.
This was his chance. To his left, the horse pen. A single handler, distracted by the shouting, his back turned. Three horses stood saddled near the fence. Finn didn’t hesitate. He crossed the distance in a blur, his hands closing on the nearest reins just as the handler turned.
“Oi! What’re ye—”
Finn kicked hard. The horse lurched forward, nearly unseating him, then found its stride. Behind him, the handler was shouting, but Finn didn’t look back. He leaned low over the horse’s neck and drove his heels in again.
The edge of camp blurred past. Tents, wagons, and men scattered out of his path. Someone yelled at him to stop, but he kept going.
An arrow hissed past his shoulder and buried itself in the ground ahead.
Finn yanked the reins left, swerving between two supply carts. The horse’s hooves skidded in the mud, found purchase, and he was through. Open ground stretched ahead to the road cutting south, back toward England, toward Kent.
Toward Cecily.
He risked a glance back. Three riders were already mounting. Behind them, near the tree line, the young deserter lay crumpled in the dirt. Guards stood over him. One nudged the body with his boot.
A wave of nausea swept over him, but he faced forward and rode harder.
The sun climbed as he pushed south, the horse’s breathing growing labored beneath him.
He turned off the road where a stream cut through a stand of trees, urging the horse into the water to break the trail.
The cold soaked through his boots, but he kept moving, following the stream, then climbing out on the far bank and circling back toward the road.
Behind him, he heard hoofbeats.
Finn dismounted and pressed himself against the trunk of an oak, one hand over the horse’s muzzle to keep it quiet. The riders passed on the road, two of them, moving fast, eyes scanning the ground for tracks.
Finn waited until the sound faded. His legs were shaking. The horse’s sides heaved with each breath. Foam flecked its mouth.
“Easy,” he murmured, running a hand down its neck. “Just a little farther.”
He knew he couldn’t push the animal much longer. And staying on horseback made him too visible.
By midday, the horse was limping. Finn dismounted and checked its foreleg. The hoof was sound, but the animal favored it when it walked. He couldn’t ride it anymore without risking permanent injury. He turned the horse loose and kept walking, moving south.
∞∞∞
He’d been walking for hours when he heard singing, off-key and earnest. It came from a group of pilgrims heading to Canterbury, a dozen of them on foot. He approached the group of pilgrims cautiously. An old man leading them eyed his bruised face and torn tunic.
“Are you heading to the shrine?” Finn asked. “Canterbury?”
The old man hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Aye. God’s road is for all. Join us if ye will.”
Finn fell in at the edge of the group, grateful for the acceptance. There was safety in their numbers.
On the second day, the road narrowed into dense woodland. The singing stopped.
∞∞∞
Finn felt the threat before he saw it. A jay screamed somewhere in the trees. Then another. Then nothing.
Men stepped out from the trees on both sides of the road. Six of them, maybe seven, rough-clothed, armed with clubs and knives. One had a rusted sword.
“Stay where ye are,” the man with the sword said. He was grinning.
The pilgrims froze.
“We don’t want trouble,” the old man said, his voice steady. “We’re on pilgrimage to—”
“Don’t care.” The thief jerked his chin toward the donkey. “That’ll do. And whatever coin ye’re carryin’. All of ye.”
Finn’s hand went to his belt, where his own coin and the stolen tools pressed against his side. If they searched him, they’d take those too.
One thief moved toward a woman near the front of the group, reaching for the bundle she carried. She pulled back, clutching it to her chest.
“Let go, woman.”
“Please,” she said. “It’s all I have.”
The thief grabbed her arm and wrenched the bundle free. She cried out and fell.
Finn moved without thinking. He crossed the distance in three strides and drove his shoulder into the man’s side, sending him sprawling. The bundle hit the ground, and Finn snatched it up, tossing it back to the woman.
“Run,” he told her.
The thief with the sword was already coming. Finn ducked the first swing, felt the blade whistle over his head, and came up hard with his fist. It connected with the man’s jaw and sent him staggering back.
A sharp pain stabbed at his ribs. Cracked, maybe broken. He rolled, saw the club coming again, and threw up his arm. The impact jarred his bones. His vision blurred and his stomach churned.
Around him the pilgrims were scattering, shouting. Someone was fighting back, one of the younger men. The donkey brayed and kicked, scattering two of the thieves.
Finn struggled to his feet, but hands grabbed him from behind and slammed him face-first into the dirt. He tasted blood.
“Check him,” someone barked.
Rough hands patted him down. They found the tools.
“What’s this, then?”
Finn twisted, pain searing through his back and ribs as he tried to pull free, but the man holding him was stronger. The thief yanked the bundle free from Finn’s belt and tossed it to the one with the sword.
“Files and other tools,” the man said, unimpressed. “Probably worth somethin’ to a smith.” He pocketed them.
The thieves took what they wanted—coins, food, the donkey’s packs—and melted back into the trees.
Finn lay in the road, sharp pain in his ribs with every breath, his shoulders locked up and burning, and stared at the dirt.
The tools were gone. His last remaining coins were gone.
The old pilgrim helped him sit up. “Can ye walk?”
Finn nodded, though his head swam when he moved.
“Ye fought well,” the man said quietly. “Foolish, but well.”
Finn didn’t answer. The pain in his ribs was nothing compared to the hollow ache spreading through his chest.
He had failed.
Finn thanked the old man and split off before Canterbury’s gates. He turned east, toward Kent, toward the cave. His ribs screamed with every breath. The tools were gone.
∞∞∞
He found the machine in the cave exactly where he’d left it. He had to put a hand on the wall to steady himself. It was still here.
He moved closer, careful of his injuries, and ran his hands over the frame, checking for damage. Animals had been inside. He could see scratches on the wood, droppings in the corner, but the machine itself was intact.
With difficulty, Finn pulled it into the fading light and knelt, his fingers tracing the familiar gears. He saw Anton’s file marks on the main lever, remembered the months spent watching, learning the machine’s rhythms as he handed the old man tools.
The timing mechanism was still misaligned. That was the problem that had sent him more than a year forward instead of hours. If he could adjust it, recalibrate the timing wheel—
But he’d need tools for that. Fine tools. The ones the thieves had taken.
Finn sat back on his heels and stared at the machine. He had no tools. No money to buy them. No time to steal them.
Somewhere in Kent, Cecily was preparing for her wedding.
And time was running out.