A Glitch in Time Page 3

  When Edward laid the first shocking stripes across the defenseless cheeks of my bare bottom, I kicked and howled at the top of my lungs, as I'm sure anyone in my unhappy situation would have done. Apparently unmoved by my request that he desist immediately, he proceeded to swat up and down my buttocks and thighs until they were stinging like wildfire, and until small, nasty bits of twigs and leaves flew though the air all about me. Then, incredibly, he went over the area again, at a slightly different angle, on the dim chance, I suppose, that there might be one unlashed inch of my agonized backside that had escaped torture. Although he avoided striking the very sensitive backs of my knees (Edward is a gentleman, after all.), he was not quite as charitable about my lower legs, which suffered a thorough striping, and looked rather like two sticks of peppermint candy when he had finished.

  Just as I believed the worst was over, I felt his hand grope about in a most ungentlemanly manner as he opened my legs very wide, which had the unfortunate effect of also spreading the cheeks of my bum and exposing, as it were, new territory. Mine was not a position which most well brought up young women would think of as attractive, so I tried squirming about to avoid what I suspected was about to become even more painful. This proved to be not the cleverest move, and merely presented my rosily glowing and well-striped bottom and thighs even more advantageously.

  I cannot say that the switching was truly brutal, and I prefer to believe that the few stinging blows that lashed the inner portions of my thighs, and into that most tender of all places, were not applied intentionally. But, be that as it may, the entire episode stung ferociously, and later, when the area began to itch maddeningly, I made a firm decision never to forgive him.

  Afterward, I leaned against a tree and plotted revenge, while Edward investigated either side of the bridge. He came back to tell me quite confidently that we were definitely still in England. Since my bottom was still throbbing and itching, I resisted the urge to call him an ass again. Of course we were in England, and it was still 1909, and King Edward was on the throne, in all his regal plumpness. How the machine had contrived to get us where we were was a bit of a mystery, I would admit, and might prove to be of some possible value in getting people back and forth to work, but this entire business of time machines and time travel was, as Uncle Herbert would say, a lot of rot and poppycock.

  At that precise moment, there appeared over the rise what seemed to be an apparition; four mounted, fully armored and helmeted men were riding down on us. They were dressed as knights in red and purple livery and were carrying ornately crested shields. Each knight, if that is what the fools were trying to look like, bore a heavy sword in a scabbard at his side and had a great white plume atop his steel helmet. The two closest riders carried what appeared to be lances, the sort one imagines being used in a medieval joust. Behind them at a short distance lumbered a crude wooden carriage with massive wooden wheels, drawn by a pair of dappled grey draft horses with feathered fetlocks, each enormous animal adorned in the same livery as the mounted men.

  We watched their approach with fascination, and it was quite obvious that they had seen us as well, and were not pleased by our presence at their costumed masquerade.

  Suddenly, as though on a signal, the first knight drew his heavy sword, followed by the second man, and then the third and fourth. Seconds later, the four armed knights thundered toward us on horseback in a very ugly mood. One of them was swinging about his head that fearsomely spiked iron weapon called a mace.

  I cowered in Edward's arms, prepared to die, and as the horsemen bore down on us, I distinctly heard Edward mumble something, which sounded very much like, "489, A.D.? Oh! My God! King… Arthur?"

  Chapter Two

  The costumed horsemen thundered nearer, brandishing a number of frightening period weapons that looked quite authentic to my admittedly untrained eye. I should point out here that I have always regarded costume parties and other such amateur theatricals with intense loathing. As a helpless child, too young to defend myself from such atrocity, I was stuffed regularly into some stuffy, ill-smelling costume and shoved out onto a dusty school stage. Dressed improbably as a cabbage or a hedgehog (once, even as a Chilton Cheese), I duly played the fool for the amusement of my elders. In my first year at school, I remember being trussed into a pair of tight, white satin breeches, waistcoat and a tri-corner hat that continually slipped down over my eyes, while the half-witted adults in the audience conspired by their applause to convince me that I was, indeed, Lord Nelson. I need hardly point out that a rotund five year old with a running nose and two missing front teeth bears no resemblance whatever to the hero of Trafalgar. Nor, to my knowledge, did the original Admiral become overcome with excitement and wet his breeches in the heat of battle.

  Thus, when the costumed knights bore furiously down on Edward and me on their snorting chargers, I assumed that the attack was part of one of the elaborate medieval pageants or fairs for which some people appear to have a passion, including an afternoon of mock jousting and swordsmanship for the benefit of an audience in rented costumes. However, when the spiked ball of the leading knight's mace crashed into the stone post of the small bridge and ripped it to bits, I began to suspect that I might be mistaken. In fact, had Edward not shoved me down the incline and into the muddy stream at that precise moment, I would have no doubt been trampled to death. Edward followed me almost immediately, tumbling head over heels down the incline, whereupon he promptly grabbed my hand and dragged me along after him across to the opposite bank with four mounted knights in hot pursuit. When we reached the top of the small slope, we dashed toward the not far distant woods, in the hope of a hiding place.

  We had no chance at all, of course, and were almost immediately overtaken by the galloping horses. Two arrows whistled through the air and burrowed into the ground directly in front of us, and an angry voice bellowed for us to halt.

  "Another step and ye'll take an axe in your back!" the first knight shouted. "Halt and show cause why ye should not be slain forthwith."

  I, of course, had an opinion on that, as there was a substantial body of English law forbidding the wholesale butchery of tourists on the public highways. I settled, in the interest of brevity, with explaining that we were waiting for the number 14 motorbus to Oxford Circle.

  The second knight removed his helmet and stared at us very rudely.

  "Where be ye from, and what queer manner of dress it that?" he demanded.

  I, for one, was offended. While it's true my clothing budget is rather small, I do try to keep abreast of the current fashion, and did not appreciate hearing my wardrobe referred to as queer.

  "Just who do you think you are, you preposterous fop?" I sputtered. "Dressed up like some absurd, puerile..." At this juncture, Edward delivered an enormous whack to my rear end, and then kicked my lower leg, apparently for emphasis. It was too late, though. The second knight spurred his horse forward, very threateningly. Edward pushed me behind him and began a groveling apology.

  "I beg you to forgive my wife's foolish and impertinent tongue!" he shouted. "She's dull-witted at times, but she means no offense." I opened my mouth to object and was rewarded with another swat. "I promise she will pay for her rudeness with my belt across her bare bottom." The knight grinned, in that irritating way men have when they feel they belong to a club to which women are not invited.

  "Do that then, and keep the stupid wench silent," he ordered. "A witless woman's tongue is a thing that may be sliced off with but one blow."

  Whoever he was, this actor was taking his role much too much to heart.

  "My humble apologies, sir." Edward bowed. I do not exaggerate. He bowed!

  "I'll have an answer, then," the knight said. "From whence came ye'? And what is yer' purpose here?"

  Edward bowed again. "We are travelers, sir, nothing more. Innocent travelers."

  "Your trade?"

  "A poor tinker, sir, and my good wife, as you can plainly see, is like a simple-minded child of no danger to a
nyone but herself." Edward reached behind me and gave the simple-minded child's rear-end a painful pinch in warning.

  The second knight, who appeared to be the group's leader, shook his head dubiously, and then waved an arm to his companions. "Seize them! Mayhap, he'll find an honest answer when the feeble-minded wench is strung up and flayed alive before his eyes!"

  One of the lesser soldiers leaped from his mount to secure our wrists with leather thongs, so that another lackey could attach each of us to an iron ring at the back of the wagon with a sturdy length of rope perhaps six feet long. We were apparently to walk to our place of captivity, tied like cattle to the rear of the conveyance. Suddenly, the face of a young woman appeared at one of the wagon's small, curtained windows. Apparently fascinated by the queer manner of our clothing, she studied every detail of it with open curiosity while we were being secured.

  "Now, who are we to think that is?" I whispered to Edward with a smirk. "Queen Guinevere, or the Lady of the Lake? My God! Who are these idiots?"

  "If you don't close your mouth and stop insulting everyone in sight," Edward growled under his breath. "I will ask these 'idiots', very politely, for permission to wallop the living daylights out of you, before we are drawn and quartered!" In times of stress, Edward often resorts to crude Americanisms such as "wallop the living daylights out of you," "wail the tar out of you," or the thoroughly gruesome, "skin you alive." (All frontier terminology, meant for effect. Don't take it too much to heart.)

  The wagon began to move now, lumbering along the rutted road on its thick wooden wheels like a kind of creaking, prehistoric beast. Following in the fresh ruts it made was difficult, and both Edward and I fell in the mud several times. I had somehow lost one shoe while in the machine, and the road was filled with sharp rocks. When I fell again, twisting my ankle, I swore loudly, and suddenly, the woman opened the flap of fabric that served as a window cover and spoke to one of the mounted knights.

  "The woman has injured herself and appears weary. Allow them to ride."

  "Your Highness..." the knight began.

  "Allow them to ride!" she snapped in a petulant tone that left little doubt as to who was directing this amateur theatrical. Instantly, one of the guards riding behind us leapt down and untied the long ropes that tethered us to the carriage. Moments later, we were sitting astride a horse, bound together, but grateful to be out of the mud.

  "Neither the Lady of the Lake, nor Guinevere," Edward whispered in my muddy ear. "But Lady Bountiful. And extremely pretty, at that."

  Edward can be very annoying, at times, but I was forced to agree with him. The young lady was beautiful, and kind. I wondered if she was a professional actress, or just a local, playing her role for the run of the fair.

  The question now, though, was where was the fair?

  * * * *

  One of the more irritating things in the world, for a woman like myself (a tireless agitator for and adherent to total equality of the sexes), is seeing a man proven right–ever! Which is why, even when the vast gray bulk of a medieval fortress appeared in the distance, I persisted in looking for some evidence of a fair such as the usual festive tents and gaily draped booths which might have proven my hypothesis that all of this was nothing more than farce. Where were the charming stalls selling trinkets and toys, ham sandwiches and chips, lemonade and ale in commemorative mugs? Where were the crowds of quaintly-attired shoppers, pulling whining children by their sticky hands and carrying their offspring's abandoned, wilting balloons on wooden sticks? As we got closer, my alarm grew. There were no booths and no balloons. The castle rose up before us out of the surrounding plain like a great, silent gray mountain, ringed with absolutely nothing but tilled field and workers toiling with the sort of crude tools one saw illustrated in books about the feudal period.

  No roads, or automobiles, or motorbuses, or anything that might have suggested the twentieth century. Or even the nineteenth. Or seventeenth.

  I began to be very frightened.

  When we reached the castle, we discovered that only the foundation of the castle's walls was of stone, and that the towering walls were constructed of enormous standing logs. A wooden castle? We rode up a long hill to the massive gate, which opened at a signal from one of the knights to reveal a great open area dominated by one, long wooden structure and a number of smaller buildings with thatched roofs. Still trussed up like potential holiday hams, Edward and I were pulled down from our shared horse and dragged off to one of the larger outbuildings, which turned out to be a jail of sorts with barred stall-like cells and a center area presumably meant for the unpleasant business of "questioning" prisoners such as ourselves. This disagreeable supposition was supported by the large number of devices equipped with straps and metal restraints.

  We were greeted by a short, squat, gnome-like person, who searched us (for weapons, presumably), before throwing us into a tiny, windowless stall containing nothing other than a crude wooden cot and a bucket. The damp floor was strewn with rushes and smelled as though it had been recently inhabited by pigs.

  "Do you believe me, now?" Edward demanded as I peered out the bars of our cell into the dank passageway.

  "No," I lied, still obdurate. "There must be another explanation."

  "Possibly, but all of what we've seen makes a certain amount of sense, darling," he explained patiently. "The year on the time clock… this wooden fortress… my reading shows that the man we think of as King Arthur, if there even was such a person, lived around this date, 490 A.D., much earlier than is commonly believed. He disappears from history by 515 A.D. In Latin, he was called Arturius."

  "These people speak English, not Latin," I cried. "I can understand them, most of the time. I certainly understood that part about stringing me up and flaying me alive. Very theatrical. I still think it's some sort of… I don't know, maybe a historical experiment? A museum?"

  Edward sat down on the single filthy cot and sighed. "The thing is, Abigail, I also recognize this place. This hill, the surrounding terrain, is in South Cadbury."

  "Don't be ridiculous, Edward. I know that South Cadbury is a small village, but it does have houses, and street lights, and a greengrocers, and tobacco shops..."

  "But, don't you see? It's not South Cadbury, yet," he said. "And it won't be, for hundreds of years. Although this place was referred to in the mid sixteenth century as South- Cadbyri, by a fellow named Leland. And he actually used the name Camallate, for the castle that the locals claimed had once stood here, which maybe this hill, and this structure. Even then, it was widely believed to be the site of what we know as Camelot. There's even a local legend here that says that every Midsummer's Eve, Arthur and his knights ride over the hilltop, down through the ancient gateway, and allow their horses to drink at a little spring near Sutton Morris Church. Oh, I know that's mere superstition, but about ten years ago, a local minister excavated the site, and discovered the foundations of a Roman era fortress… exactly like this one, darling, I swear it."

  Unready to admit to his face that I was beginning to believe what he said, I settled as comfortably as possible onto the crude cot and wondered what Aunt Jane and Uncle Herbert were having for dinner. Moments later, the gnome appeared at the door of the cell and shoved a wooden bowl of what appeared to be boiled chicken necks through the bars, along with a wooden bucket of distinctly suspect water.

  "I don't believe you'll need to worry about being strung up and flayed alive, my love," Edward said cheerfully, gnawing at one of the gnome's greasy offerings. "I believe we will both succumb to dysentery long before that happens. Try one of these, darling; aside from the smell, they're quite tasty, actually and you need the nourishment."

  I slapped at an insect that was crawling up my leg and threw the disgusting mess on the floor.

  Which is how I came to receive my first spanking in the year 489 A.D. Deprived of his "tasty" and nourishing supper, Edward's cheerful demeanor changed quickly, and as tired as I was, I hadn't the energy to either struggle or even c
omplain as he turned me across his thigh, flipped my skirt up, and pulled down my drawers to deliver a dozen smart slaps to my chilled bottom. At least, I thought, rubbing my buttocks as I pulled my drawers up, one part of me was warm.

  * * * *

  The next morning, we were awakened very early, not by the crow of the cock, but by the bite of the bedbug. I woke up itching horribly and badly bitten about my legs.

  "Fleas," Edward declared, impaling one of the little buggers on his finger to investigate. "Don't scratch. It will only make it worse."

  "It can't be worse!" I cried. "I've been eaten alive! Do something!"

  "I'll lodge a complaint with the concierge," Edward said cheerfully.

  You see, the thing of it was, Edward was enjoying this–all if it. Edward being Edward, he was probably already planning a book, or a scientific paper to be presented before the Royal Academy, in which my flea infestation, and possibly last night's spanking, would be humorous footnotes. Edward once told me that the "privilege" of being the first man on the moon would be well worth the price of being unable to return. As with all highly educated men, Edward can be a thoroughgoing idiot at times.

  I did not risk a second fifth century spanking telling him this, however. (Little could I have known then, what awaited me when I met this "Good King Arthur" face to face.)

  We had been awake for only moments when the gnome appeared at our cell with two other men, who dragged us out into the center of the barn and secured our hands and feet to a wall with iron clamps.