No Time Like the Past Read Online Free PDF Page B

nodded over my shoulder. Two little boys, dressed well but soberly, stood in the doorway to what I guessed might be Lady Lacey’s own sitting room. They held hands and both of them looked terrified. Galloping horsemen arriving just after dawn during a civil war – that’s never reassuring.
    The eldest boy was very pale, and slender and delicate looking in his blue jacket and breeches. His blond curls hung around his face. His brother was stockier, darker, and dressed in similar material. Idly, I wondered if it was his brother’s outgrown suit. These must be Charles and James, the two boys.
    They both stared at us in silence. Given that the sight of three complete strangers lying on their stomachs, peering through the bannisters couldn’t possibly be something they’d ever seen before, we probably had only seconds before one or both of them raised the alarm.
    Down below, someone pounded on the front door, demanding admittance. The boys stopped staring at us and turned their attention to the Great Hall instead. Then back to us again.
    Markham rolled over onto his back, winked at them, put his finger to his lips, and gestured them back into the room again. Amazingly, they did as they were told. In fact, they seemed glad to go.
    Downstairs, the pounding redoubled. No servant came to answer the door. Had they already fled? In all our time there, we never saw a single one.
    Lady Lacey – at least I assumed that was who she was – slowly crossed the Hall. I could only see her rear view. She wore something light on her head – I couldn’t make it out. Her dress was of some dark, stiff material, caught up over a lighter underdress. Her skirt was even fuller than mine was and the wide sleeves gave her that fashionable narrow back. In the sudden silence, I could hear the sound of silk swishing over the stone flags.
    The pounding began again. Visibly squaring her shoulders, she pulled back the bolts. The door crashed back against the wall. Echoes boomed around the building. I risked a look over my shoulder. The boys had gone.
    A dusty figure tumbled into the Hall, bent forwards, and panted for breath.
    Margaret Lacey stepped back, her hands to her face.
    ‘ Edmund ?’
    I suddenly had a very bad feeling about all of this.
    Straightening, he seized both her hands. ‘Margaret – I have come to warn you. He is coming. He is on his way. I came across the fields, but he will be here at any moment.’
    She half turned and I could make out her white face.
    ‘Rupert? Coming here? But why?’
    I couldn’t see his face clearly – he was outlined against the light behind him, but I heard him take a deep, shuddering breath.
    ‘Because he knows, Margaret. God help us both – he knows!’

Chapter Three
    You see, this is the problem with legends. They’re legends. A bunch of colourful facts bundled together to make a good story. This is why the world has historians. We jump back to a given event, sort out the real facts, escape whatever peril(s) is (are) menacing us at the time, and return in triumph. That’s what historians do. It’s not all sitting around drinking tea and blowing things up, you know.
    Anyway, it seemed that even St Mary’s gets their facts wrong occasionally. From the way they were clinging to each other, it was obvious that Edmund Lacey and his sister-in-law had a greater affection for each other than had previously been known.
    And who was ‘he’? And what did ‘he’ know? These were not difficult questions to answer, and ‘he’ was on his way here. We were in uncharted territory now.
    I glanced at Peterson, immersed in the human drama below, and at Markham who was still keeping watch behind us. He cocked his head, listening. Then I heard them too. More hoof beats. And more than one horseman this time. Markham melted away into the shadows, reappearing moments later to whisper, ‘Four of them. Riding hard. Don’t like the look of this.’
    Neither did I. I twisted round to make sure both boys were