Prince of Time by Sarah Woodbury Page B

“It’s a long story which you aren’t going to believe.”
    Bronwen’s features stiffened. “We’ll see about that,” she said, and crossed her arms across her chest. I wanted to warn her that it wasn’t her place to become angry with the Prince of Wales.
    “You really want to know?” Dafydd said.
    “Yes,” she said.
    “If I tell you, you can’t overreact,” he said. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
    Bronwen opened her mouth, closed it, and then sat back in her chair and crossed her knees. “Fine. I’m all ears.”
    But then Dafydd hesitated, and instead of telling her anything, asked her a question. “Look at me and tell me what you see.”
    Bronwen shifted, uncomfortable under Dafydd’s scrutiny. “I see a young man of sixteen, dressed in what appears to be medieval-authentic linen shirt, brown leather armor, tunic, trews, leather boots, and a cloak. You look like you need a bath. Your teeth are straight. You have blue eyes and light brown hair and are a couple of inches over six feet.”
     “How about our weapons?” he said.
    “I didn’t get to examine them closely, but what I saw indicated that they were beautifully worked and . . .” she paused, her brow furrowed. “They’re of a very old design. Are they antiques?”
    “What if I told you that all of our clothes, including our boots, are handmade? That the weapons were handmade too and are over seven hundred years old? What would that say to you?”
    “That you are very rich, obsessive members of the SCA who refuse to carry ID or money?”
    “What’s the SCA?” I said.
    “Society for Creative Anachronism,” Bronwen said, “but from your ignorance maybe that isn’t the case either.”
    Society for Creative Anachronism . I had no idea what any of those words meant, separately or together.
    “Do you know about old weapons?” Dafydd said, following his own train of thought.
    “I’m a graduate student in archaeology,” Bronwen said.
    Another word I didn’t know. “What’s ‘archaeology’?”
    Bronwen gave me a look, and then returned her attention to Dafydd. “Why doesn’t he know?”
    “Because where he comes from, there’s no such thing,” Dafydd said. He sat beside her then and put his head in his hands.
    “Would you mind leaving us for a time?” Dafydd said. “You’ve been up all night. Perhaps now you could go home to sleep?”
    “You haven’t answered any of my questions,” she said.
    “I can’t answer them,” Dafydd said. “Not right now.”
    Bronwen grimaced. “I don’t get this, but that’s fine. You don’t have to tell me. I don’t know you at all. Goodbye.”
    She headed for the door.
    Dafydd stood and held out a hand to stop her. “I’m sorry. I want to explain, just not here, with Ieuan ill. Where can I find you again, to give you the explanation you deserve, and to get our weapons back?”
    Bronwen jerked the door to the room open. “At the archaeology department,” she said. “Right where I found you.” The door slammed shut behind her. Dafydd contemplated the space where she’d been, his hands on his hips.
    “That’s hardly the way to win a girl, my lord,” I said.
    “Win a girl?” Dafydd laughed. “She’s at least five years older than I am. She would never be interested in me.”
    Really? “You’re the Prince of Wales, my lord. Every girl is interested in you.”
    “Trust me, Ieuan. Not this one,” Dafydd said. He grabbed the back of a chair and pulled it close to my bed.
    “Why did you send her away?” I said.
    “Because I had to tell you where we are, before I could tell her where we came from,” he said.
    “I don’t understand, my lord. Where are we?”
    “We’re in the land of Madoc.”
    I grinned and pumped my fist. “I knew it! I knew it!” I stopped. “How is that possible?”
    “Because the land of Madoc is not only far away across the sea from where you were born, but hundreds of years ahead in time.”
    I gaped at him. “What are you