Restorer of the World

Restorer of the World

Clayton Spann

Copyright 2007 Clayton Spann

Smashwords Edition

Restorer of the World is the 2nd volume

of the Roger Ward Trilogy

Discover others titles by Clayton Spann at Smashwords.com:

Exchange Rate

The Line of Eyes

Lord Protector*

Expelled*

Day Nine

Two Timed

Stoned

*Roger Ward Trilogy

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons (except for historical figures), living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For my nephews

Mike, Ken, Rob, Tom and Bill

Prologue

Wales

April, 2006

Roger Ward watched the founder of the Tudor dynasty walk toward the southern stone. Though she was arthritic, Margaret Beaufort stepped with confidence over the forest floor. Then a heel caught a twig. She stumbled slightly and strayed from the required straight line.

You must go more slowly, my lady, said Bray.

The tiny woman glared at Bray, then returned to the northern stone. She again attempted to negotiate the passage.

Bray said nothing more. Ward would see how Sir Reginald did when his turn came. Bray was in worse shape than Lady Margaret.

Several minutes later she neared the southern stone. She took one last step and disappeared. Although Ward had seen this happen before, it still astonished him. In these greening woods of oak and ash Lady Margaret stood nearby, but five hundred years distant.

Bray began the twenty yard walk. The white haired, hunched man moved at glacial pace. Ward wanted to yell for him to speed it up. The minutes they were burning might be the minutes needed to stop Moustafa. But Bray was feisty enough to physically challenge Ward; that would really delay them.

He shouldn’t quibble over minutes anyway. Moustafa had five days on them. They would need the help of Providence to thwart this would be Mehdi. But at this point Providence might not give a damn.

Sir Reginald disappeared, and on the first try. Ward was determined to match him. He proceeded with measured paces between the slate gray stones the size of basketballs. He reached the southern stone without incident and suddenly Lady Margaret and Bray popped back into existence. His spine tingled as he realized he now stood in the year 1499.

A sharp drop in temperature turned the tingling to shivering. Scattered snow lay in the woods and leaves had disappeared from the trees. Yes, this was early April during the heart of the Little Ice Age. Meteorological spring would not yet have arrived. He could see barren farmland through the now denuded woods.

They repeated the process and entered the early Eleventh Century, if the calculations of Lady Margaret were correct. Leaves again adorned the trees and the temperature was very mild. This was the era of favored climate when northwestern Europe began its march to greatness. Ward recalled it was so warm vineyards were cultivated in England.

They walked the line again. The yo-yo effect of temperature continued. Leaves were gone and the air stone cold. Now they were really back in time, circa 500 A.D. The woods appeared to extend indefinitely; Ward could detect no farmland. He half expected barbarian Saxons or Angles to attack. Or the Druids, who in the mists of the past had discovered the passage.

The three of them crossed the passage one last time. The air was still cold, but a smattering of leaves sprouted on the trees. Again Ward detected no farmland.

They looked at each other. They were in the First Century.

Part One

The Dogs Are Dead

Spring, 2006

Chapter 1

Roger Ward parked his ancient Yugo by the curb. The park and playground lay beyond.

Ward knew they were watching him. For the hundredth time he told himself there was nothing to fear as long as he kept his part of the bargain. They were good, he must admit. No vehicle had turned onto Camden behind him. He had watched the rear view mirror all the way down the residential street.

But he could feel their eyes. Over the past five months he had almost gotten used to those hidden eyes. Every day of those months he took comfort in a simple mantra: if the agents of Margaret Beaufort wanted him dead, he would already be dead.

And, of course, they were the lesser of his fears.

At the playground fifty yards beyond the curb he could see her. Anne had her back to him as she watched her young charge toss and chase a beach ball. Several other women watched their own toddlers squeal and scamper in play.

Ward summoned his courage.

He stepped from the decrepit car into the crisp air of a brilliantly lit day. In the last two weeks the foliage of the Northern Virginia suburbs had erupted to life. This morning at the end of March the land lay lushly verdant. The white and pink blossoms of dogwoods added to the glory of the day.

It took all his guts to walk up the sidewalk toward the playground.

With one utterance she could crush him. A simple Please stay away would effectively do him in. She was all the hope he had left in life, and it was such a tenuous hope.

What chance did he have, really? He was twice her age, and financially and professionally ruined. Yes, he was still an attractive man, he could still turn the heads of even teenage girls. Yet what of real substance did he have to offer Anne Hollingsworth?

As he drew closer Anne turned and saw him. Her face lit and she smiled.

Hi, Roger.

Bon jour, Mademoiselle au pair. How is young Sean behaving today?

She laughed. As usual. The little nutter.

The whooping three year old ran about as if on PCP. At least here the perpetual motion machine could rampage without causing too much damage. He sounded an absolute terror when confined by four walls.

Her brown eyes swung from Ward back to the child. Ward’s eyes remained on Anne. He did manage to keep his view confined to the creamy complexion of her face and the auburn of her hair, and off the hourglass figure below.

A whiff of cologne drifted from her. Ward had not detected that before. Had she applied it in anticipation he would show up today?

Are you teaching this week? she asked.

Yes. Wednesday and Thursday. At Coleman Middle again. Which was just four blocks away.

Oh, lovely. Perhaps you can pop over for lunch either day.

It took all of Ward’s control to remain calm. He could hardly believe his ears.

I would like that.

This was incredible. He had made far more progress than he dared hope.

Careful, he told himself. Don’t overplay your hand. Don’t spook her.

Ring my mobile Wednesday morning, then. We can set a time. She handed him a piece of paper containing a telephone number.

Would dropping to his knees and shouting thanks to heaven qualify as spooking?

I will. I’ll look forward to it.

Ward refrained from asking if she had cleared this with Sean’s parents. They both worked so she would have the house to herself midday; she might not be informing them at all. He didn’t want her to get in trouble. But—no way he was turning her down.

She laughed abruptly, then placed a hand on his sleeve. Oh, you will think me mental, but let me tell you about the dream I had last night.

God, how he loved her laugh. From the time he first heard that laugh at Penshurst its delightful mirth had always warmed him.

I would think you last person mental. Anne might laugh easily but she wasn’t giddy. She had been quite level headed in the other world and here she seemed the same.

Well, listen. You might after this. You know the other day you asked if I had visited Penshurst Place in Kent? And I said no?

Of course he remembered. He had debated very hard whether he dared ask. He had yielded to the urge, and later regretted it.

Ward swallowed. You dreamed about Penshurst?

It was so strange. Hilarious, I suppose. You were sitting at a huge desk in a long room that was almost all stone. A full suit of armor was on either side of the desk. You were dressed in a baggy shirt.

Oh, Jesus. It was coming back to her. His throat constricted further.

Baggy shirt? He managed to wheeze out the words.

And I wore a snug blue dress that ran to my shoes.

A snug dress indeed, one that fully accentuated her voluptuous body.

She laughed. I was bringing tea and crumpets or something to you. I called you ‘my lord’.

Ward forced a laugh in return. Dreams are weird. Why did you think we were at Penshurst?

I just knew. I got the distinct impression you owned the place and I was a servant to you.

I wish I did own it. God knows how many millions of pounds it’s worth.

Sean came running up to Anne, demanding a fruit drink. Anne patted his head and reached into the stroller at her side. She shortly fixed him up with a container that had its own straw.

Ward had to fight a mix of panic and euphoria. Her dawning recollection could permanently drive her away or permanently bond her to him. But he shouldn’t have taken the gamble. He seemed to be winning her over anyway.

She smiled coyly. Would you fancy that? My being your servant?

Ward put his hand up as if taking an oath. I am a man of the 21st Century, even if a devotee of medieval history. I believe in the honor and love part of marriage vows, not the obey part.

Jesus, what had he just said? That might undo all his gains, if she took that as a veiled marriage proposal. Unless—unless she had begun to think along those lines.

No, no, too soon for that. They had known each other only three weeks in this world.

It seemed all so real, she said. She wasn’t smiling now. He suspected she was leaving out the emotional content of the dream. In the other world she had been strongly drawn to him—or at least drawn to the dashing Earl of Kent.

It was real, Anne.

It had been a great ride in that world, in which Ward achieved the wealth and fame he vainly sought in this one. Yet eventually too many powerful people wanted him dead. Ward had been relieved when the real world was restored. Or, he should say, the world in which he had resided ninety-eight percent of his life. One world was no less real than the other.

Some philosophers say we can’t truly tell waking life from dream life, said Ward. But we can. Your dream is part my mentioning Penshurst and part your own liking the Middle Ages. That had provided a congenial topic the past weeks, their knowledge of the era. She had gained hers from love of medieval romances, while he of course possessed a doctorate in the field.

The laugh returned. I must say I did enjoy bringing you food. Which I will do again soon.

Excellent, my fair lady.

With her cherubic face Anne was cute rather than beautiful, and he knew her true hair color was plain brown rather than auburn. He would also prefer that she were several inches taller, as the top of her head barely reached his chin. But he wouldn’t trade her for Nicole Kidman or Scarlett Johansson. Or anyone.

She then asked about his latest stint as a substitute teacher and he curled her hair with tales of recalcitrant students. But these were mainly anecdotes passed by other teachers; he was faring well in the classroom battlegrounds.

As he spoke he noticed the other women at the playground, au pairs and mothers alike, glancing at him. The glances of the au pairs were direct, and those of the mothers were furtive. These glances he had garnered from age sixteen to now at age forty-one.

In his younger days that had puzzled him. His jaw was too heavy, his cheekbones too sharp, and he swore his bushy black eyebrows made him look sinister. No, he didn’t put himself on the A list concerning looks. But women did, and they were the ones who counted.

All those years he had taken advantage of their attraction. He had broken many hearts and at times callously so. He supposed he did not deserve such a fine person as the lively and gracious lass beside him.

In the depths of his heart he knew he should have not looked for Anne. He had no right, really. She was a vibrant young woman at the start of her life, while he was a washed up man at the start of middle age.

Yes, at Penshurst she had fancied him. She would have become his mistress if he pressed matters. But the great question remained: just what did she fancy? In that other world Ward was a superstar, proclaimed and filthy rich and the most eligible bachelor in England. Who among the female gender would not have swooned?

Would Anne have wanted the man underneath the fame and wealth? Especially if she knew of his track record concerning women? And why would she want him now, once she learned about his bleak prospects?

He of course had no right. Yet here he was anyway.

It had taken him until February to learn she existed in this world. He was surprised and thrilled to find she left Britain months before, to take a position as an au pair in the United States. He was also relieved. It made for the greatest good luck she had gone across the Atlantic.

Even then he knew he was under the eyes of the agents of Margaret Beaufort. He was sure they would have killed him if he ventured back into Wales. Perhaps they would have anyway if he stayed longer in Britain.

Ward wondered if Anne in America was not mere happenstance. Especially since she ended up in Virginia, less than fifty miles from where he used to live on the Eastern Shore. In the other world the currents of history had thrown them together at Penshurst, and in this one the currents had seemingly again arranged proximity.

A truly selfless man would now back away. Leave her to her life. Not contaminate it with his own.

Ah, Anne. He did love her. He wanted only the best for her. He should find some excuse not to have lunch, then never return to this little park.

That was about as nervous as he had ever been, that day he approached her here. He was sure she would blow him off. He might still cut a fine figure, but she would see he was much older than she. At first Anne had been politely tolerant as befitted her amiable nature, but within ten minutes he had her engaged in enthusiastic conversation.

Perhaps the currents of history were also at work in that regard. The personalities that had meshed so well at Penshurst were fated to attract in the suburbs of Fairfax County.

Eventually Sean ran to Anne, this time demanding to go home. Anne packed him into the stroller and they were off. Though not before she rewarded Ward with a smile brighter than the day’s sunshine.

Ward loathed roaches and mold. But in this apartment there was no avoiding them. Nor could he avoid his apartment mates, who he rated at a somewhat higher level.

If he feared Beaufort’s men, he should fear the day laborers he roomed with more. Both Hispanics were habitually drunk, and one had gotten in a parking lot brawl over the weekend. Carlos broke the nose of his adversary. At least that confrontation involved only fists.

The machetes were another matter. Both men stowed them under their mattresses. Ward knew because they proudly showed him the weapons. They boasted what would happen to any black in the apartment complex that broke in and tried to rob them. Ward wasn’t a prejudiced man, but these two guys reminded him of the Mexican villains in Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

Thankfully they seemed to like him. Ward did admit he strove to remain on good terms. He had helped one apply for a car loan, and he tutored the other occasionally in English. He was picking up some Spanish in return.

Ward was alone in the apartment. He took a beer from the refrigerator, then sat on the battered sofa in the living room before a 17 inch TV. His eyes swept the bleak white walls on which not a single picture hung. Dust caked venetian blinds kept out the afternoon sun. The odor of cigarette smoke rose from carpet that no amount of cleaning could erase.

He clicked on the TV. Fortunately his apartment mates had cable. Ward flipped among Fox, CNN, and MSNBC to get the day’s news. The usual litany of Islamic atrocities dominated. From Nigeria to Malaysia the daily quota of bombings, kidnappings, and assassinations had claimed their victims.

But the market was up again. He laughed. A fat lot of good that did him.

Two centuries ago, they would have thrown him in debtor’s prison. It was amazing anyway they hadn’t arrested him for credit card fraud when he returned to the States. While in Britain he had maxed out all three of his cards, and not paid a bill in nine months. Upon arrival at JFK he owed over $20K.

His FICO score was probably the lowest in the nation. In addition to credit card woes, while away he had defaulted on his auto loan and condominium mortgage.

He had ruined his career, too. When Chesapeake College learned he had not met with foul play—how could he tell them otherwise—they canned his ass. In their eyes he willfully blew off fall semester. He had given them no prior notification, no word during the semester, no explanation afterward. That had left his name absolutely mud. No other collegiate institution would touch him.

He was fortunate to get something at the public school level. He did have a Ph.D. in history, and as long he had no criminal record, they would let him substitute. A full time position in the school system was another matter. He would have to prove himself reliable and effective in addition to taking a host of education courses.

So far he averaged substituting twice a week. At $100 a pop (no benefits included) that didn’t give him much financial maneuvering room. His share of the rent came to $350 a month. Food ran another hundred. Then came expenses on the aging Yugo. Anything left over went for credit card debt.

His life sucked. If he were twenty-one he could shrug off these setbacks. At forty-one he was pretty well done. Oh, in a couple years he might land a steady job in the county school system. But after starting out so brilliantly, he was supposed to end his days as an instructor—babysitter said it better—of middle schoolers?

He had been one of the most promising prospects that the University of Chicago ever granted a doctoral degree in medieval history. He had immediately landed a tenure track position at Penn. There, and later at Maryland, he had regularly published in the top academic journals. He was a name, he was a force. A lot of people couldn’t stand him, but even his worst enemies grudgingly accorded respect.

Of course, those enemies smiled when he failed to get tenure at either Penn or Maryland. They applauded when he was reduced to teaching at a backwater community college. They would dance to learn Roger Ward had bombed even there, and they would take as frosting on the cake that he was massively in debt and lived with machete toting illegal aliens.

Ward clasped his hands. Anne was the only good thing he had going. But what would she do when she learned more about him? So far he had revealed only that he formerly taught in college. He said he had left to complete research about the last members of the Plantagenet dynasty. Which was not a falsehood.

His stomach dove as he realized her invitation to lunch might also involve invitation to reveal more of his past. He did not want to outright lie. Even if he did, lies would not stand. A simple query on Google could confirm or refute anything he put before her.

Once she knew what would Anne Hollingsworth think of the beguiling stranger that had so suddenly thrust into her life? Would her now obvious attraction dissolve? How could it not dissolve? She would see him as a loser. At her core Anne was a