“We’ll give um something, lads!”
“Ay, let’s give um!”
The publican watched, grinning, as the ragged crowd advanced on Barthold, their pewter mugs held like maces. They backed him past the leaded windows, against the wall. And only then did Barthold fully realize the danger he faced in this unruly pack of vagabonds.
“I’m no nark!” he cried.
“The hell you say!” The mob pressed forward and a heavy mug crashed against the oak wall near his head.
With a sudden inspiration, Barthold swept off his great plumed hat. “Look at me!”
They stopped, gazing at him open-mouthed.
“The perfect image of Tom Barthal!” one gasped.
“But Tom never said he had a brother,” another pointed out.
“We were twins,” Barthold said rapidly, “separated at birth. I was raised in Normandy, Aquitaine, and Cornwall. I found out only last month that I had a twin brother. And I’m here to meet him.”
It was a perfectly creditable story for sixteenth-century England and the resemblance could not be gainsaid. Barthold was brought to a table and a mug of ale set before him.
“You’ve come late, lad,” an ancient one-eyed beggar told him. “A fine worker he was and a clever one at prigging a prancer—”
Barthold recognized the old term for horse thief.
“—but they took him at Aylesbury, and tried him with the hookers and the freshwater marines, and found him guilty, worse luck.”
“What’s his fine?” Barthold asked.
“A severe one,” said a stocky rogue. “They’re hanging him today at Shrew’s Marker!”
Barthold sat very still for a moment. Then he asked, “Does my brother really look like me?”
“The spitting image!” exclaimed the publican. “It’s uncanny, man, and a thing to behold. Same looks, same height, same weight—everything the same!”
The others nodded their agreement. And Barthold, so close to success, decided to risk all. He had to have Tom Barthal!
“Now listen close to me, lads,” he said. “You have no love for the narks or the London law, do you? Well, I’m a rich man in France, a very rich man. Would you like to come there with me and live like barons? Aye, take it easy—I knew you would. Well, we can do it, boys. But we have to bring my brother, too.”
“But how?” asked a sturdy tinker. “They’re hanging him this day!”
“Aren’t you men?” demanded Barthold. “Aren’t you armed? Wouldn’t you dare strike out for fortune and a life of ease?”
They shouted their assent.
Barthold said, “I thought you’d be keen. You can. All you have to do is follow my instructions.”
Only a small crowd had gathered at Shrew’s Marker, for it was a small and insignificant hanging. Still, it afforded some amusement and the people cheered lustily as the horse-drawn prisoner’s wagon rumbled over the cobbled streets and drew to a halt in front of the gibbet.
“There’s Tom,” murmured the tinker, at the edge of the crowd. “See him there?”
“I think so,” Barthold said. “Let’s move in.”
He and his fifteen men pushed their way through the crowd, circling the gibbet. The hangman had already mounted the platform, had gazed over the crowd through the eye-slits in his black mask, and was now testing his rope. Two constables led Tom Barthal up the steps, positioned him, reached for the rope ...
“Are you ready?” the publican asked Barthold. “Hey! Are you ready?”
Barthold was staring, open-mouthed, at the man on the platform. The family resemblance was unmistakable. Tom Barthal looked exactly like him—except for one thing.
Barthal’s cheeks and forehead were deeply pitted with smallpox scars.
“Now’s the moment for the rush,” the publican said. “Are you ready, sir? Sir? Hey!”
He whirled and saw a plumed hat duck out of sight into an alley.
He started to give chase, but stopped abruptly. From the gibbet he heard a hiss, a stifled scream, a sodden thud. When he turned again, the plumed hat was out of sight.
Everett Barthold returned to his Flipper, deeply depressed. A disfigured man would not fit his plan.
In the Flipper, Barthold thought long and seriously. Things were going badly, very badly indeed. He had searched through time, all the way to medieval London, and had found no Barthold he could use. Now he was nearing the thousand-year limit.
He could go no further—
Not legally.
But legality was a matter of proof. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—turn back now.
There had to be a usable Barthold somewhere in time!
He unlocked the small brown suitcase and took from it a small, heavy machine. He had paid several thousand dollars for it, back in Present Time. Now it was worth a lot more to him.
He set the machine carefully and plugged it into the time clock.
He was now free to go anywhere in time—back to primordial origins, if he wished. The time clock would not register.
He reset the controls, feeling suddenly very lonely. It was a frightening thing to plunge over the thousand-year brink. For a single instant, Barthold considered giving up the entire dubious venture, returning to the security of his own time, his own wife, his own job.
But, steeling himself, he jabbed the send-off button.
He emerged in England, 662, near the ancient stronghold of Maiden Castle. Hiding the Flipper in a thicket, he emerged wearing a simple clothing of coarse linen. He took the road toward Maiden Castle, which he could see in the far distance, upon a rise of land.
A group of soldiers passed him, drawing a cart. Within the cart, Barthold glimpsed the yellow glow of Baltic amber, red-glazed pottery from Gaul, and even Italian-looking candelabra. Loot, no doubt, Barthold thought, from the sack of some town. He wanted to question the soldiers, but they glared at him fiercely and he was glad to slink by unquestioned.
Next he passed two men, stripped to the waist, chanting in Latin. The man behind was lashing the man in front with a cruel, many-stranded leather whip. And presently they changed positions, with barely the loss of a stroke.
“I beg your pardon, sirs—”
But they wouldn’t even look at him.
Barthold continued walking, mopping perspiration from his forehead. After a while, he overtook a cloaked man with a harp slung over one shoulder and a sword over the other.
“Sir,” said Barthold, “might you know where I’d find a kinsman of mine, who has journeyed here from Iona? His name is Connor Lough mac Bairthre.”
“I do,” the man stated.
“Where?” asked Barthold.
“Standing before you,” said the man. Immediately he stepped back, clearing his sword from its scabbard and slinging his harp to the grass.
Fascinated, Barthold stared at Bairthre. He saw, beneath the long page-boy hair, an exact and unmistakable likeness of himself.
At last he had found his man!
But his man was acting most uncooperative. Advancing slowly, sword held ready for cut or slash, Bairthre commanded, “Vanish, demon, or I’ll carve you like a capon.”
“I’m no demon!” Barthold cried. “I’m a kinsman of yours!”
“You lie,” Bairthre declared firmly. “I’m a wandering man, true, and a long time away from home. But still I remember every member of my family. You’re not one of them. So you must be a demon, taking my face for the purposes of enchantment.”
“Wait!” Barthold begged as Bairthre’s forearm tensed for the stroke. “Have you ever given a thought to the future?”
“The future?”
“Yes, the future! Centuries from now!”
“I’ve heard of that strange time, though I’m one who lives for today,” Bairthre said, slowly lowering his sword. “We had a stranger in Iona once, called himself a Cornish-man when he was sober and a Life photographer when he was drunk. Walked around clicking a toy box at things and muttering to himself. Fill him up with mead and he’d tell you all about times to come.”