Now they were only a few miles southeast of the capital on Blackheath, a sprawling hilly area covered for miles around with peasant camps. The air was hazy with smoke and the scents of a thousand meals being cooked in the open. The raucous noises of celebration had been ongoing for hours, especially from the pillagers who returned from looting London.
Earlier, Wat and the other leaders of the revolt had sent Sir John by the River Thames to the Tower of London to bear tidings to the king. He’d been instructed to ask King Richard to come out to Blackheath and negotiate peace with the rebels. Sir John returned with news from the king that he would visit Blackheath in the morning and meet with the leaders.
In the meantime, the rebels had threatened to burn the suburbs around London and then conquer the city by force, slaying all within if the mayor didn’t open the gates.
Faced with so many armed men, the city officials had no choice but to give in to the demands. Wat Tyler, the priest John Ball, and others had led thousands throughout London. Reports had begun to trickle back regarding the destruction, particularly the slaying of rich merchants, noblemen, men of the court, as well as clergy. The rioters had broken in to the king’s prison and set free the criminals, who had then joined in the killing and looting.
All evening, Marian prayed that Will, wherever he was, would remain unharmed. She’d seen him only at a distance during the long days of riding toward London. The jostling of the crowds, the sheer masses of people, had separated them. But thankfully, as the ranks had swelled and as they’d drawn closer to London, the peasants had become too preoccupied to pay attention to Phillip, a lone boy among the many hostages they held. Marian had persuaded Thad to cut the boy’s binding loose, and, although afraid of the repercussions, Thad had finally done so.
Will had tasked Thad with guarding them, and the young steward hadn’t strayed from their sides. Even now, Thad sat in front of them, his hand on his sword pommel.
It was June 9. She’d been in 1381 for fifteen days. While the two weeks had seemed to last an eternity and had been filled with one life-threatening danger after another, in some ways she felt as though she’d just arrived, especially when it came to being with Will.
If Ellen or Harrison had gotten into the crypt yesterday and found the ampullae Will had hopefully been able to put into the hiding spot, then she might very well be taking a hot shower and sipping a cup of coffee soon. At the thought of indulging in the two luxuries, she should have been excited. Instead a strange trepidation slithered through her.
What would happen to her body here in 1381? Would she fall into a coma on Blackheath? If so, how would a 1381 comatose body survive without IVs, NG tubes, and antibiotics to ward off infections?
Without modern medical advancements, a coma in the Middle Ages would most certainly lead to death. How long would she have before dying? A few days? A week at most?
When first crossing time, she hadn’t considered—hadn’t really cared—what became of her past body once she returned to her real life. But here, with Robert and Phillip, she couldn’t keep from worrying. They would be frantic if she suddenly fell into an unconscious state.
With the imminence of going back to the present, she’d begun to more carefully examine all the angles of the return process. When her comatose body died in 1381, would she also die in the present time? She suspected her modern body would terminate at the same time her 1381 body did. After all, on her dad’s list of speculations, he’d indicated a death in the past or vice versa would result in a corresponding death in the other time era. She’d already concluded that’s what had happened to him.
If her 1381 body was doomed to die, that meant even if she fully awakened in the present, she wouldn’t have long to live. Unless . . . There had to be an unless. Surely the process of crossing back into time wasn’t fatal for everyone. After all, there were records of people who had lived to tell about their visions. She could only speculate that meant they’d discovered a cure.
The ultimate cure . . .
Of course. Those early accounts were from people who had access to the wellsprings. They’d likely had the holy water to draw them back to reality and additional water when they started feeling ill as their comatose body in the past began to die.
That meant, once she awoke in the present, her body would require another dose. Was that why her dad had put two ampullae into the crypt? Had he known he would need two in order to survive? One to bring him out of the coma and another to sustain his life?
If she gave one of the ampullae to Ellen, Marian wouldn’t have the two doses she would need herself. That meant her only hope for saving both Ellen and herself was to find the old wellspring in the area where St. Sepulchre had once stood. What if St. George’s Tower, the old square tower at the edge of a shopping plaza, was truly the place? What if it had been built to guard the well? Maybe the gargoyle holding the clock was issuing a warning not to disturb the spot.
Even if it was really the location of the old well, there were no guarantees. Besides, how would she and Harrison begin investigating and digging without drawing attention from the competition who was bent on stealing the miracle cure from them?
Marian squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could as easily squeeze away all the disturbing thoughts. Robert’s hair tickled her chin, and she snuggled him tighter.
The distant shrill screams and the accompanying vicious laughter sent a shiver through Marian. Robert slipped his hand into hers and lifted his head from the crook of her arm. “I promise to protect you, Mother.”
It was the first time he’d called her anything beside “my lady.” And his declaration brought stinging tears to her eyes. “You have already.” She worked to get the words past her constricting throat. “You are a brave and good man like your father.”
He laid his head back down, apparently satisfied that all was well. Marian pressed a kiss into his dust-coated, uncombed hair, and he released a small tired sigh. On the other side of Robert, she caught Phillip watching her.
Phillip was decidedly more reserved and solemn and nodded at Marian. “You are brave and good likewise, my lady. I see now why my father chose you. If I find a wife half as beautiful and kind as you, I shall indeed be fortunate.”
“Thank you.” Again, tears pricked Marian’s eyes. Though the ground was hard and cold and her body ached all over and they’d finished the last of the food Sarah had packed for them, somehow Phillip’s affirmation took away every thought of discomfort—even if just for a moment.
Suddenly, she hated the fact that she could be jerked out of 1381 away from these boys, away from her duty to take care of them, perhaps without even being able to say good-bye.
She wanted—no, needed—to be able to say good-bye to Will. How could she leave without seeing him one more time, without looking into his eyes, hearing his voice, and maybe even tasting his lips? The idea of never speaking with him again wrenched her heart. She closed her eyes to fight against the need for him that welled up within her more and more often lately.
Shouts and laughter once again pierced the air. If the long grass hadn’t been crushed against her cheek and the scent of soil so strong in her nose, she would have been tempted to think this was just one long nightmare she was experiencing. But the warmth of Robert’s small body, the soft pressure of his breathing, and the crackle of a nearby fire proved this was all very real.