Norman Farandole: Rough Landing

Rose went sprawling out of the transport flash, finding herself faceplanting into thick turf – salty turf, at that, and she spit out a mouthful of green as she rolled on over to spring to her feet. Corvantes had fallen the other way, spreadeagle in the wet grass, and to her everlasting luck, was taking just a heartbeat longer to recover. And he'd dropped the .38. She ran the two steps to it, inches from his hand, and kicked it away just as he reached for it, sending it arcing far out over the cliffs and down towards the sounds of surf far below. One part of Rose's brain registered those details of location and immediately pushed them aside to concentrate on her enemy as he lunged to his feet and swore.

"You bitch!" Then, distracted by their surroundings, Corvantes looked wildly around for a moment: high white cliffs gleaming in the sunshine, rough blue-grey water as far as they could see beyond, unadulturated green rolling to the horizon in the other direction. He brought his icy green eyes back to his erstwhile victim in fury. "Where the hell are we?"

Rose kept her mouth clamped shut, not about to give him a single blessed bit of information, and began backing cautiously away. He must not have been listening back there. Typical male. Why stop and ask for directions?

"Oh, no, you don't. Give me that device!" he snarled again, and lunged after her, reaching for her left arm with the Time Jumper. She struggled mightily, but had no chance against his much greater weight and strength. Somehow she managed to get her right hand clamped on the wrist strap, though, and when he finally got the buckle undone, scraping and bruising her wrist in the process, she held on with strength borne of sheer desperation, twisting herself and it out of his grasp – and then flung it over the cliffs, as well, following the pistol.

Corvantes, gaping and grabbing wildly at it, watched the Jumper sail out of his reach and fall, lost. He stared uncomprehendingly at the spot for several heaving breaths, then raised a furious fist to backhand her, his intent to beat her to a pulp obvious.

"HOLD!"

Both of them whirled around, Corvantes with his fist still raised, to see a small troop of horsemen riding hard towards them, obviously having just spilled out of a fold in the green hills. The noise of their galloping hooves, hidden until then by the wind and surf, burst on their ears as they took in the strange sight: a dozen men in breastplates and helmets, spears high and banners fluttering aloft. Even Rose, who had known for a few minutes when she was coming to, gulped hard at this incontrovertible evidence of their place in history. Corvantes was just lost.

Pulling his horse to a thundering stop a few feet from the strange duo who he'd found fighting on his cliffs, the lead man stared down at them. "What is the meaning of this? Who are you?" he demanded regally.

And regally was the word, Rose instantly realized. He even had a gold circlet on his helmet. Forcing herself to break free of the paralysis of shock, she ran to the horse's side and placed a beseeching hand on the man's forearm.

"My lord, help me! I beg you for protection! This man kidnapped me – stole me from my home and brought me here!" His accent had been so different from her own that she wasn't sure he could understand her, but surely damsel in distress translated to any language.

Apparently it did. His thunderous grey eyes snapped back to Corvantes in suspicion. She could see him taking in the strange apparel this time – Corvantes had on an expensive black silk suit that, while impressive as all get-out back in his own time, would nevertheless be as out of place here in eleventh-century Saxon England as a loincloth. (Nevermind her own jeans and sweater; she'd just keep him from looking further than her eyes!) "Who are you?" the rider demanded again.

Corvantes was quick and smooth, that was certain. "My lord," he began silkily, spreading his hands graciously with a disarming smile, "my name is Paul Corvantes. This woman is my servant, who had stolen my – a precious heirloom. I was trying to retrieve it, and her."

The leader glanced back down at Rose, who gave him her best innocent-but-terrified look and shook her head forcefully, implying the lie. He looked back and forth a couple more times, then shook his own head. "One of you is lying, and I will find out who. But not here. How far to the ship?" he asked over his shoulder to the next in line.

"The next bay, my lord, just beyond that headland."

"Good. Bring them both." A final look at Rose seemed to soften slightly, and gave her hope, then he sidled his horse a step away from her before digging his spurs into its flanks and sending it off at an instant gallop.

The rider who had replied stepped his own mount up to her, then, and smiled down kindly, with a spark of interest. "Miss?" Holding out one hand to her and taking that foot out of the stirrup momentarily, he pulled Rose up to a precarious perch behind him. Then, with a relay of the order to bring Corvantes to the other dozen riders, he spurred on behind his lord. Rose glanced back to see her erstwhile captor chivvied at spear- and sword-point into the middle of the horse troop on foot and then forced to set out at a run behind them. She grinned. That's better.

She faced forward again to peer over her escort's shoulder as they pounded up the hill, hoping she wasn't being too forward by the way she was holding on to him. "What's your name, Miss?" he asked back at her – though he had to repeat it a couple of times before she understood.

"Rose." She decided not to try for a last name. "And you, my lord?"

"Alain Garethson. Cousin of King Harold."

"And is that..." She pointed ahead.

"The King? Aye, that's him."

She was about to ask where they were going (or try to, anyway), when they crested the hill at last. Rose gasped at the sight, heretofore hidden by the headland: dozens of wooden sailing ships were scattered across the bay, moored in the vast mouth of a large river. Alain didn't pause, but kicked his horse faster, following the King down the dirt road towards the rocky beach below. They caught up just as he pulled up at the end of a long pier, jumped down off his horse without a glance at the boy who ran to catch the reins, and strode on long legs down to the rowboat waiting halfway along. Alain quickly swung down and then lifted Rose as lightly as a leaf, took her arm (with a gesture more gallant than confining) and escorted her to the same boat.

King Harold barely glanced at them as they sat on the thwarts, obviously distracted and worried. Rose held her tongue, not wanting to press her advantage to the breaking point. The oarsmen quickly brought the coracle out and began rowing hard for the nearest large ship, towering (to Rose's eyes) a good twelve feet above the waterline, with the same pennants fluttering high above from the main mast as had been carried by the King's horsemen. Obviously, this was the flagship of the fleet, the King's own ship.

As they came alongside, she read the name painted along the prow, and smiled. She couldn't have told anyone why, but for some obscure, unknown reason, it reassured her.

The ship was named Blaidd Drwg.