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Homecoming

Written by Karen Bergstralh

 

January 1636, Dover, England

 

Four large bay mares walked quietly down the gangplank and on to the quay. Their heads lifted, nostrils widened, and ears swiveled taking in the new sights, odors, and sounds but they showed no signs of distress. Wilfram Jones smiled in relief. The mares were his gift to his family and the last of his group's horses to be off-loaded. The English Channel had been choppy and not all of the horses had been as phlegmatic.

"That's it, Wilf," Reichard Blucher said, coming up behind him. "All our gear and animals are off that miserable excuse for a ship."

"It got us here without charging a king's ransom," Wilf answered, "and the captain didn't overcharge us for what your horse did to his ship." He glanced up at the clouds and frowned. "We need to get on our way. It's a long ride to our destination and yon clouds look like they hold snow."

Wilf directed Christian du Champ, Dieter Wiesskamp, and Reichard to manage the packsaddles and packs. Mike Tyler joined him in saddling the riding animals. In less than an hour all five men were mounted and each held the lead of a packhorse.

"Okay, let's go," Wilf called out and started his horses off through Dover.

"You should say 'Move 'em out,' Wilf," Christian said with a wicked grin.

"No, no!" Dieter chimed in. "It's 'Head 'em up! Move 'em Out!' but only if you're leading a cattle drive or a wagon train. Ask Mike."

"Don't look at me," Mike Tyler replied. "Westerns never were my favorites. You guys are the ones who spend all your spare time watching Rob's old tapes."

Wilf ignored the banter and concentrated on winding through the crowded streets. Once clear of the town he led them off the Dover to London road and onto a smaller lane leading west. He kept them moving for half an hour before calling a halt to check cinches and give the horses a rest.

Dismounting, Wilf drew in a deep breath of cold, damp air.

"Ah, the smell of England. As we're upwind of the town, the worst stink is cow dung."

"How long has it been," Christian asked, "since you've had a lungful of English air?"

"Years. I came back once, but never made it past the docks." Wilf frowned at the memory. "I was just turned twenty and thought to show my father and grandfather that I'd survived and even had money in my pockets." His memories of that aborted visit stirred up a number of other unpleasant memories.

"What happened to stop you?" Christian asked softly

"At a dockside inn a whore reminded me that mercenaries are the scum of the earth. She did find my money as good as any other's, though." Wilf faced his old friend and lifted an eyebrow. "No doubt, someone similarly informed you."

"None so kind as a whore. My grandfather ordered me out. Ordered that my name be removed from family records. He told me that I wasn't even fit to beg on the streets so that left becoming a mercenary."

The quick smile that crossed Christian's lips didn't fool Wilf. His own memories still festered and he suspected that Christian's did so, also. Movement among the horses drew his attention.

Reichard's gelding had his head up, a clump of grass hanging forgotten from his mouth. The horse's attention focused on the road behind them. One by one the other horses lifted their heads and subtly tensed.

"Get mounted," Wilf ordered, "someone's coming." Before he was fully settled in his saddle his right hand had moved his up-time pistol from its holster to his coat pocket. "Michael, take the packhorses and stay behind us. If a fight starts, ride off down the road as fast as you can manage. We'll catch up."

"Are you expecting a fight?" Tyler asked calmly. Wilf smiled at the sight of the pistol ready in Michael's hand. The young man had come a long way from the shy, nervous boy he'd first met. Briefly Wilf wished that Rob Clark was with them. Rob had several times proved capable of handling a pitched battle. Michael was still green when it came to a life-or-death fight.

"No, but I picked this road because there shouldn't be much traffic." He paused, listening. "Our visitors are mounted. That could mean soldiers or an organized band of thieves. Not that there's always a difference between the two." When Tyler nodded thoughtfully Wilf turned away and moved to the front of his little band. He noted that Christian held an up-time style shotgun instead of his usual blade. Dieter had his pistol out, but held it down along his leg, hidden from a casual glance. Reichard's pistol looked like a toy in his big hand and it, too, was held out of sight.

Satisfied, Wilf reined his horse to a spot ahead and to the right of Reichard. The first of the approaching group came around a bend in the road and Wilf allowed himself a smile. They were soldiers and he recognized the man in the lead.

"Ho, there!" the leader called out. His eyes went wide when he saw Reichard and he broke into a grin. "God's Blood! If it isn't Wilfram Jones! I should have known when the city guard reported a giant and a dwarf rode through." The soldier turned to the man beside him. "Sergeant, hold the men here. These villains are old friends of mine, dangerous only to beer and wine kegs." He rode forward and shook hands with Wilf.

"Robert Masters, you pox-ridden, out of luck whoreson! What are you doing here and who is the idiot that put you in charge of more than a pike?"

"Good to see you, too, Wilf," Masters replied genially. "And it's Lieutenant Masters now. Captain Bryce put together a company and, being a man with vast military knowledge, he begged me to join him."

"Your Captain Bryce wouldn't be Thomas Bryce, would he?" Wilf asked innocently. When Masters nodded, he added, "Then your band is lead by a drunken fool who's named the village idiot as his second. What are you doing in England?"

"Aye," Masters sighed dramatically, "that sums us up. Now that jobs are scarce on the Continent we'd have been more fools to not take the King's coin." Masters paused and looked back at his troopers. Lowering his voice he continued. "It's said that King Charles is pissing himself in fear over those supposed histories from the future. He's hired a number of mercenary companies, our amongst them, to keep what happened—what is going to happen . . ."

"What happened in another universe," Wilf finished for him. "We all get tangled dealing with four hundred years of future history." Scratching his chin, Wilf regarded Masters. "Hasn't anyone explained that just because it happened in that other universe doesn't mean that it will happen in this one?"

Masters shrugged. "There are those who say that speaking sweet reason to the king is a waste of one's breath. Such talk may be moot. Rumors have the king at death's door. Whoever it is giving orders, be it the king or some other, he's as vicious as Satan. I've seen people gaoled on the slightest suspicion. God's Blood! What were we to think when Archbishop Laud ended up in the Tower?" Shaking his head, Masters smiled and gave Wilf a speculative look.

"Still, a job is a job. We're waiting for the last of our company to come across before heading up to London next week. Most of the company is green as grass. Thomas and I could use some dependable old hands."

"Sorry, Robert," Wilf said, returning the smile, "but we aren't mercenaries anymore. No, now we're respectable horse traders. Christian's become so respectable that he's married and has children. Dieter and I are courting a pair of widows. He's made more progress with his suit than I, but I have hopes."

"So that rumor is true," Masters mused. "You are living in the town from the future. Do they know that you were mercenaries?"

"Aye, we live in Grantville. They know very well that we were mercenaries considering that they captured us on the field of battle. Among their strange ideas is that a man's past shouldn't be held against him if he wants to change. When you tire of the mercenary life come look us up."

"I may do that. What, pray tell, brings you to England in these troublesome times?"

"I've a client who thinks that a certain stud farm has some interesting stock. The client is paying for us to come and fetch a few choice animals. As the stud is near my family's village, I intend to see if any of my family still lives."

"Walk softly, Wilf, and keep your thoughts to yourself," Masters counseled. "Especially if they are about the king. Stay well clear of London, too. It sounds like your new friends made a right mess of the Tower. Some of the rumors have Satan sending the Angel of Death to strike men down with an invisible sword and then five hundred fiery demons emerging from the very gates of Hell to pull down the walls. Impossible, of course, but how else could they bring down even part of the walls without siege cannon?"

"Ah, yes." Wilf grinned wolfishly. "But then, you've never met Harry Lefferts and his wrecking crew." He hesitated for a moment. Considering all the talk and wild tales he'd heard across Europe, it was certain that Robert had heard about Julie Sims. Wilf didn't know where Julie was but, should she be in England, it wouldn't hurt to polish up her reputation. He lowered his voice and, in a solemn tone, cautioned the mercenary. "The 'Angel' is a slip of a girl with the eyes of an eagle and a rifle from the future. Her targets never see her. Pray that you never, ever give her cause to hunt you. I helped bury eighty Croats she killed when they attacked the school at Grantville."

Robert Masters blanched. "May God preserve us! I'd thought those tales were wild exaggerations."

Wilf shook his head. "When you come to Grantville you can see the grave for yourself." He waved a hand at the rest of his group. "Neither you nor the king have any reason to worry about us. Our destination lies well away from London. We're no more than a company of simple horse traders."

"That should do for anyone who doesn't know you." Masters nodded and smiled grimly. He glanced back at his men. The sergeant was haranguing a pair of troopers over loose girths. Judging from their faces neither man understood what the sergeant was saying. "Given what I've seen and heard, you may find me at your doorstep within the year."

"You'll be welcome, Robert." Wilf said.

"I'll be off, then. That is, if Sergeant Donaldson can get yonder whoresons mounted and whip them into some kind of order." He motioned to the sergeant and turned his mount back down the road.

The horse traders waited in silence until the soldiers disappeared.

"What now, Wilf?" Reichard asked mildly.

"We change roads. I hadn't planned on going by the London road." He shrugged. "But now I think that we'll join it for a bit and swing west north of where I'd planned."

"Why change roads?" Michael asked, his face showing nothing more than curiosity.

"Ah, well, not to put it too nicely, I don't completely trust our old friends Robert and Thomas. They may feel the need to prove themselves to their new paymaster. It could cross their minds that an easy way to do so is by arresting us. We’ll change roads to avoid them. By the time we return to Dover they’ll be in London.” Wilf sighed. England was the land of his birth, his home. Perhaps it was just the perspective of his years as a mercenary, or perhaps because he'd left England at sixteen, but England now felt like a foreign land.

“The regular Dover authorities shouldn’t be a problem. We landed legally and carry all the right papers. From the look on the customs clerk's face, we are probably the only people ever to pay our fees without arguing." He stared down the road before continuing. "When chaos stalks the land, strangers are easy targets. We might appear suspicious to those who don't know us."

"Actually," Michael replied with a wide grin, "those who know you guys best have no trouble considering you suspicious."

"Ah, Young Michael," Wilf replied lightly, "You wound me! Come on, daylight is burning." He ran a critical eye over the group as they started up the road. God help anyone fool enough to tangle with them, even young Tyler.

*****

"Nine days, given our detour, the state of the roads, and the weather, isn't bad time for the distance we've come." He peered at the map in front of them. "Wylye lies here. Stonehenge lies there, north and a bit east of it. Avebury is another twenty, twenty-five miles from Stonehenge. The stud farm we want is just north of Avebury." Wilf traced the route on the map. " We're twenty miles or so from Wylye tonight, about here. My family's farm is just outside a village about here." His forefinger thumped the map. "Too small to appear on Rob's map. Or, mayhap, long gone to plague or war by the time this map was drawn." He settled back and lit his pipe. Reichard and Christian looked at the map and nodded. Michael leaned forward, peering closely at it in the dim light the inn's candles offered.

After a moment Wilf took pity on the young man. "You'll get to see Stonehenge and Avebury, Michael. While neither are presently a tourist destination, people do visit them to gawk at the stones. One more band of awestruck yokels won't stand out. Unfortunately, the same doesn't hold for these other piles of stones we've passed. Dolmens, I think you called them. Many consider such stones cursed or the Devil's altars, and poking about them would draw the kind of attention you don't want. "

Things had indeed changed since he'd left England. The villagers had been always been a bit wary of strangers but now suspicions ran dark and deep. Even the innkeepers greeted travelers warily. Foreigners were watched closely.

Since they'd left the Dover-London road Wilf had insisted that everyone speak only English. People were used to travelers from elsewhere in England having odd accents. After four years in Grantville even Dieter's English could pass for "not from around here but not foreign."

Wild statements about the king's health and mental state floated on every breeze. Each new rumor seemed to bring a spasm of activity by military patrols. The group had been stopped and questioned half a dozen times.

After knocking the dottle out of his pipe Wilf reached out and carefully folded the up-time map. He got up from the table and pointed to the stairs. "Enjoy your sleep tonight. There's no inn where we're going so tomorrow night we may end up sleeping in my grandfather's barn."

*****

"Who be ye?" the voice trickled out from behind a solid oak door.

"Wilfram Jones. Second son of William Jones, grandson of Paul Jones, the horse breaker."

"Wilfram Jones be long dead," the voice muttered. "Dead and gone in some foreign land."

"I've been a long time in foreign lands but I'm most certainly not dead." Wilf stated firmly. He couldn't puzzle out if it was a man or woman behind the door. The voice and phrasing sounded elderly. It had been too many years since he'd heard his family's voices and he had no idea if the voice was family or a servant.

"Be ye Wilfram, ye must be a foul specter." The sound of the door's bar dropping into place signaled the end of the conversation.

Wilf looked around in frustration. The day had started out cold and dark and damp. By midmorning a light snow began falling. Now, with dusk upon them, they found his family's house shut tightly against them.

"That barn you spoke of last night," Christian's voice broke the silence. "Perhaps your grandfather's cattle will give us a kinder greeting. It'll get us out of this wind."

"Aye, though we'll need to watch out if he's got a stallion or two in there." After a last look at his family's front door Wilf led the group to the barn. He was dismayed to find it empty save for a single cow and half a dozen sheep. Snow sifted through a hole in the roof. What had happened here? Grandpa never allowed repairs to go undone. Da was swift with a cuff and words when Wilf or his brothers skimped on their chores. Were all his family dead?

"It appears that hard times have overtaken your family." Christian remarked. "That might explain the barred door."

"Someone's kept the stalls in good repair." Reichard's tenor came out of the dimness. "There are enough for our animals and, if we double up, for us, too."

"There's fresh hay in the loft. Straw, too." Michael's voice came from overhead. Wilf could see the beam of his up-time flashlight sweeping the loft. "I'd guess that there's enough hay to see a dozen cows or horses through until spring. There's a tin grain bin up here. It's only about a third full and the grain's musty. Jo Ann would not approve."

Dieter joined in, slapping Wilf on the shoulder. "It's fine, Wilf. We've slept in far worse places."

A flash of shame surprised Wilf. He'd come home at last and his family barred the door in his face. That was bad enough, but to have it happen in front of his friends . . . What was the quote Rob Clark had tossed off before they left? Something about never really being able to go home again?

****

"Are you a ghost?" a child's voice woke Wilf. A boy of five or six squatted beside him, peering intently at his face. "You look like Papa."

"Is Papa's name Andrew?"

"No," the little boy shook his head, "his name is Papa."

"Ah, is your Papa is called Robert or Robin?"

The boy stared at him and nodded solemnly. This boy was the son of his youngest brother, then. It didn't seem possible. Robin had been scarcely older when Wilf had last seen him. There was the look of hunger in the boy's face.

"Reichard, is that bacon I smell?" Wilf called softly, not wishing to wake any of the others that might still be asleep.

"Bacon, a bit of salt pork, and the bread we bought yesterday. There's also half a wheel of cheese and a few onions."

"Do you think that there might be enough to spare for my nephew, here?" Wilf watched joy spread across the boy's face when Reichard agreed that there was enough for their visitor, too.

"Don't eat too fast," Wilf cautioned the boy a few minutes later. "Or you'll get sick."

"You have a lot of horses. Are you very, very, very rich men?" The question was mumbled around the cheese and bacon sandwich Michael had handed the boy.

"Nope, not rich at all." Michael answered. He flipped open his folding knife and sliced an onion to add to his own cheese and bacon sandwich. The boy watched closely, reaching out to touch the knife. Michael pulled out his flashlight and showed him how to crank the handle. A squeal of delight greeted its illumination in the dim barn.

"No, nephew." Wilf added. "We're not poor, but we aren't rich. We've so many horses because we're horse traders. When we find good horses we buy them and then sell them to other people."

"You aren't a ghost." The boy made it not quit a question.

"I'm not a ghost." Wilf agreed. "Ghosts don't break their fast by eating bacon, cheese and bread." He took several big bites and chewed vigorously to prove the point.

"Your Papa is Robert Jones, youngest son of William Jones," Wilf stated after taking a sip of beer.

The boy nodded. "Momma calls him Robin. Granny Digby calls him Robert."

Relief washed over Wilf. From the way that the boy spoke of him, Robin was alive.

"Robin is my brother. That makes you my nephew and me your Uncle Wilfram."

"Uncle Wilfram is dead." The boy's voice wavered a bit and he looked uncertain.

"Touch my hand." Wilf extended his right hand toward the boy. Hesitating, the child finally reached out and poked Wilf's hand with a finger.

"Now, put your hand on top of mine. I'm no ghost, but solid flesh."

The boy inched closer and placed his small, grubby hand on top of Wilf's.

"See? Flesh and bone."

"Will? Where are you, boy? You better have watered the cow . . ." A woman slid the barn's door open and stepped in. She halted, taking in the presence of the five men. Her eyes widened when Wilf stood up.

"Andrew? It was you at the door last night. Your drunken jokes go too far. What have brought upon us now?"

"No, mistress, I'm Wilfram, Robin and Andrew's brother."

"He's not a ghost, Mamma." Little Will piped up. He reached up and poked Wilf's arm. "We're having a feast."

"Will, come here, now." Cold or fear made her voice tremble but she held her ground. No one moved and she took a few steps toward the men. She faced Wilf and looked him over carefully.

"You have the look. Enough like Andrew to be him when he's sober." Her eyes swept the interior of the barn, taking in the filled stalls and the cooking fire. That last held her attention. "I suppose I should thank you for cleaning out the old forge instead of burning down the barn."

"Give us a day," Dieter gave her his most charming smile, "and we'll set the roof right, ma'am."

"Why bother?" She said bitterly. "It won't be ours much longer."

"Because the Hampfords have demanded that it be fixed." A man's voice answered. A younger, taller version of Wilf maneuvered through the door. He leaned on a crutch, his free hand holding a pistol. His left leg was heavily bandaged and his face lined with pain. "Blessed Lord, this has to be Wilf!"

"Robin! Grown a bit haven't you, boy?" Wilf embraced his brother gingerly. "What's happened to you?"

"That thrice damned roof." Robin winced. "I fear that my attempts at repair only enlarged it and put the seal of death of me."

This close, Wilf could smell the infection in his brother's leg and his heart sank. He'd seen more soldiers die from infected wounds than in battle. By the time you could smell the wound there was nothing to be done save start digging a grave. Except . . . He glanced at Dieter. Dieter had medical skills and he'd taken some additional training in Grantville. The group's first aid kit held several up-time style medicines, too. Together they might be enough.

"Mayhap not, little brother. Dieter?"

"I'll do my best," Dieter agreed. "As long as he's still alive there's hope. The kitchen is probably the best place. I'll want boiled cloths for bandages and he'll need to be kept warm. Michael, you've had the advanced first aid course?"

"Yup. Should I break out my first aid kit?"

"Yes, and I'll need your assistance, too." Dieter turned back to Wilf. "Don’t just stand there. Get your brother to the house."

Wilf picked Robin up, dismayed to find how thin and light he was. When Robin protested, Wilf scolded him.

"Save your strength. You'll need it to curse Dieter while he cleans up your leg."

****

"What happened here, Robin?" Wilf asked. He was pleased to see the change in his brother this morning. The pain in the younger man's face was less, the fever flush replaced by a healthy pink.

"Do you remember how it was when you left? Grandpa and Da constantly yelling at each other?"

"Aye, and at everyone else. It's one reason I left."

"The fighting continued until Grandpa died two or three years later. Then everything started to go to pieces." Robin's eyes lost focus and his voice sounded very young. "Why did they fight? I was too young to understand why they fought so."

Sighing, Wilf stared at the fire. He'd been old enough to understand and the memories were painful.

"Our great grandfather trained horses for battle and tournament. He was very good at it. So good that he had a reputation throughout England. People paid him well to have him train their warhorses."

Wilf paused, gathering his thoughts. "He was the one who built this farm. Grandpa told stories of it needing ten stable hands to care for the barn when Great Grandpa was alive."

"I remember some of those stories." Robin said. "What happened to change things? Da never told the old stories after Grandpa died."

"What happened was that war and fashions changed. Muskets put an end to armored knights on the battlefield. Tourneys went out of fashion. A fully trained destrier no longer has a place on the battlefield. Some officers still ride warhorses but few of those are fully trained in the old style. It's too expensive and takes too long. Our great grandfather was a trainer of destriers. He couldn't bring himself to train lesser breeds."

"But Grandpa trained all kinds of horses."

"Aye, Grandpa did indeed. He would train any horse for any man who had the coin. He had the reputation for succeeding with horses others deemed impossible. The income wasn't as great but it was enough." Several memories surfaced and Wilf continued. "Great Grandfather taught Grandpa his training methods. Before I left, Grandpa hadn't passed his knowledge on to Da. Said Da wasn't ready yet. That was one of the things they fought about."

"I think I remember that part. When Grandpa died Da didn't have Grandpa's secrets. He tried so hard to do what Grandpa had done but it never worked for him. It was a horse that killed him."

Robin paused and Wilf offered him a sip of broth. The hand that grasped the mug didn't shake today and there was some strength in its grip.

"How did Da come to die?"

"Geoffrey Hampford had a vicious mare. She'd killed three men. Because she was out of the king's stud, gifted to the Hampfords, they dared not put her down. Pa boasted that he could train her." His eyes closed and tears leaked out from under the lids.

"Andrew and I got ropes on her and pulled her away from Da but it was too late." Robin's eyes opened and he stared up at his brother. "If Andrew had just slit her throat and been done with it, things might not have gone so wrong. He went mad and tortured that horse for hours."

"I think I can guess the rest. The Hampfords demanded recompense." Wilf dredged up what he could remember about them. Some service to Queen Elizabeth had made their fortunes. There'd never been a title, but some of the family took on noble airs. Geoffrey, he vaguely remembered, was one such.

"Yes. Jane and I were newly married." Robin picked at his blanket, sadness filling his face. "Mamma took sick and died that fall. Andrew lost himself in drink. What could be sold was, but each time we thought to have paid in full, Geoffrey's added another charge. Come next month's end the farm will be his."

"Vindictive, is he?"

"Oh, yes. He's told us that we must indenture Will to him. Others have heard him brag that he'll make my son a stable drudge. He says that it's all any of our family is fit for. I'd rather see Will dead than in his hands."

"Nay, that'll not happen. I will see to that. You rest now. Let me worry about things."

Wilf left his brother's side and sought out Dieter. He found him in what had been his grandfather's room. The room was bare, stripped of the furniture that Wilf remembered. Robin's wife, Jane and Granny Digby were making up pallets along the walls.

"The wound is clean," Dieter smiled confidently, "and we got all of the splinters out. He's responded well to the antibiotic. It should be just a matter of time and care. If I could find the right kind of maggots it might help keep the wound clean and let it heal a bit faster."

"How long before he can be moved?"

"A couple of weeks would be best, but if need presses he'll be able to bear riding in a cart or on a quiet horse in a couple of days. Given the state of the roads we've seen, I'd suggest a horse."

"Good. I'm thinking we can spare a few days for him to heal."

Jane came over and grasped Wilf's hands. "Thank God that you came when you did. If Robert died . . ." She looked away, tears flowing. "Granny Digby—" She looked over at the ancient woman fussing with a blanket. "—has a grandson in the village. He's offered her a place. I know not where we will go. My mother is dead and my father remarried. His new wife has made clear that we aren't welcome under her roof. If Robin lives he will be able to find work on one of the farms."

"I've an idea to take you back to Grantville with us. My present home isn't palatial but you'd all be safe there." Wilf watched hope flood his sister-in-law's face.

"There's plenty of room at Herr Parker's." Dieter suggested. "Or we can build ourselves new homes along with proper stables on that land below New Hope. Rob's gotten the land leases to the last of it. That's were he's intending to build his riding school and Michael's museum. Strelow's been dickering to use some of the land to extend New Hope. He figures it will become a good sized town someday."

"Aye, that's a thought. Marta has hinted that a converted milking shed isn't her idea of a proper house." Wilf grinned at the thought.

Jane stood silently, her eyes large and an expression of wonderment on her face. "You must be angels sent by Our Lord in answer to my prayers. You've brought healing for Robin and hope for our future."

Both ex-mercenaries broke out in laughter. In the far corner Granny Digby muttered about foul specters sent by Satan.

****

"So, what's the plan?" Michael asked at dinner that night.

"Tomorrow Christian and I will go into the village and look for Andrew. We'll go on to Wylye, too, if needs be." Wilf mopped the last of the stew in his bowl with an end of bread. "We need to buy more supplies in any case. Past that, Dieter stays here to keep an eye on Robin's ...