STEALING TIME

by

Christopher Stasheff

Copyright 2010

 

CHAPTER 5½ : KING JOHN’S TREASURE

 

            "Yeah, it is going to cost a lot, isn't it?"  It was hard to argue with a genius, especially when he wasn't trying to win, just to make good sense.  "Okay, so we have to start making a lot of money very quickly.  How're we going to use this gadget to make a fortune or two?"

            'Research," Angus explained.  'There must be a hundred historians who'd love to have us find incontrovertible evidence of what really happened in their favorite historical eras.'

            "Don't tell me you're thinking of taking a film camera back to shoot the signing of the Magna Carta!"

            "Nothing so crass,' Angus said, 'though it has occurred to me to sneak a very small audio recorder into the grove of Academe and find out what Socrates really told his students."

            "Philosophers don't pay much," Yorick told him.  "I was thinking of something more immediate—say, digging up buried treasure as soon as the pirate ship's out of sight."

            Angus frowned.  "It'd have to be a treasure that's never been found.  We don’t dare change history.”

            “We never have yet.
            “Yet,” Angus echoed, “and I don’t want to find out what happens if we do – so if it’s buried treasure, it has to be off the books.”

            'There're plenty of 'em,' Yorick said, then stopped because Angus's eyes had gone glassy.  'What're you thinking of now?'

            "King John's treasury,' Angus said.  “Heard about it in Intro to European History.  Those last years, after Runnymede, he turned really paranoid, insisted on traveling all around the country to make sure his nobles stayed in line—but just to play it safe, he took the treasury with him."

            Yorick stared.  "The whole treasury?"

            Angus nodded.  "In a bunch of wagons.  Of course, there wasn't all that much left, after he'd had to bail out Richard the Lion-Hearted, pay his ransom twice.  They were crossing a beachj called the Wash at a ford, no bridge handy—but nobody told him what happened to that river when the time came in.'

            Yorick grinned.  'Let's go see, shall we?"

            Fortunately, if they needed more agents, they could borrow them from the GRIPE of the future—and Angus made a brief mental trip to ask the twelfth-century Northern English agent to watch the approach of the royal train and tell him if King John changed his mind about trying to cross the Wash.  He had to make the request ahead of time, of course, since the man had to hike a hundred miles to watch.  Yorick had to make a trip to the 1960s to buy supplies, but it only took them a day to get ready.  Then Doc Angus waved good-bye, pushed the button, and watched the half-dozen wet-suited agents disappear.  He took a coffee break, sat down to meditate, and waited for the twelfth-century agent to get in touch.

 

*           *           *

 

            There was a commotion at the end of the street, and the travelers in the common room of the Golden Eagle looked up.  One went to the door, then came back wide-eyed.  'The king!  'Tis King John himself, surely!"

            Most of the patrons leaped up and ran to the door, exclaiming.

            Hugo stayed in his chair.  "See the nasty little man who has drained England and made his reeves turn hundreds out into the snow?  Why would I want to hustle to

watch him?"

            "Good or bad, he's a king!" the landlord took his apron off.  "I've never see one, and I'm not about to let the chance slip by!  Bestir yourself, lad."

            Hugo grumbled, but he rose and went out with the others.  He was a man on the young side of middle age, a yeoman on holiday, wearing a belted smock over cross-gartered leggins; there were a few white hairs in the mahogany of his beard, but not a one in his hair.  He had come to Bishop’s Lynn to buy sheep, for everyone knew their wool was the best in the North Country.  No one knew he had really come because Angus McAran had asked him to.

            There they came, a score of spears preceding the knights on their high horses, chain mail jingling, the sun gleaming off  their helms, the gaudy paint on the shields slung at their saddle-bows making the king’s progress festive.  Behind them, in a litter slung between two more horses, came the king himself, waving with lackluster weariness at the people lining the streets.  Hugo was shocked at how unimpressive he was—small, pudgy, ugly, with stringy hair and a sullen, glowering look of defeat.  There was in him no trace of the golden Plantagenet handsomeness, nor of their delight in life.

            A knight who rode behind the litter moved his horse forward, blocking King John from Hugo's sight.  The time agent scowled in vexation and tried to decipher the insignia on the knight's shield, but with no success.  It was a coat of arms Hugo had never seen, and Angus had memorized all the heraldry of England and showed them to him when he stopped to visit in Hugo's mind some years back.  Hugo decided to make a sketch of it and show it to Angus when next he dropped in to Hugo's mind.

            Then the litter was past, King John was gone from sight, and one of the men-at- arms had dropped out of the procession to chat with a village lad who stood near the innkeeper as Hugo watched the wagons pass, draw by oxen, moving slowly and deepening the ruts as they rolled.  Their weight was clear, and the fact that each was covered with thick, strong cloth tied down along the sides would have made people wonder what was in them, if the rumor hadn't already run through the countryside that the king traveled with the royal treasury behind him.  Hugo glanced at the villagers to either side and saw looks of greed and anger—greed for the gold, anger for the men-at-arms who marched beside each wagon and the knight who followed it with drawn sword. 

            The local youth finished telling the sergeant what he’d wanted to know; the man nodded in thanks, then pulled the lad in to walk with them.  The youth looked surprized, but the sergeant’s hand went into his belt-pouch and came out with a silver coin which he pressed into the lad’s hand.  The youth grinned and marched happily in the train, proudly, even strutting a bit.

            Out of the town they went and the patrons of the inn turned to go back in.  Hugo managed to catch the innkeeper and ask, "What did they want that lad for?"

            "To show them the way to the ford," the innkeeper told him.  "They mean to cross the Wash this day."

            "I'll have a watch."  Hugo turned back to the door.  "It's not every day you have a look at royalty, and they're going slowly enough to catch them up."

            "You'll have company a-plenty," the innkeeper said with regret.  "I'd come myself if I didn't have guests to feed."

            "I'll tell you if they do aught but walk." Hugo went back out.

            Since the train could go no faster than the marching footmen who led it, Hugo had no difficulty catching up with the dozen locals who were following.  After all, the train was the most exciting thing to happen in the village in the last decade, so they were determined to gain every ounce of entertainment they could.

            As they went, Hugo listened to the villagers discussing King John's perfidies—high taxes and an overbearing manner, trying to tell his dukes and earls how they should manage their lands and treat their serfs.  Not a one of them doubted for an instant that the severe depression that gripped the country was the fault of King John, who had taxed every spare groat he could.

            All well and true, Hugo thought; he'd had to start the high taxes to pay Richard's ransoms, for his Crusade, and for his wars in France—but John had kept the taxes high even after Richard lay dead.

            "Belike he paid the bowman who shot the Lionheart," one peasant said darkly.

            "Aye," said his mate, "and is there any doubt he had Prince Arthur slain?"

            No, Hugo thought, but there didn't seem to be much evidence either.

            "This country’d been far better off if good King Richard were here," the first peasant said darkly.

            True, Hugo noted, but the point was that King Richard was definitely not here, not in England, nor had he been for more than a few months of his reign.  He'd been forever off to the next war or tournament.  He was the very model of a knight errant, but he had never been much of a king.

            The unknown knight was riding beside the litter again, leaning down to talk to the king.  Hugo wondered who he was ad what they were talking about.  Whatever it was, the king didn't want to hear it; he scowled, shaking his head, and swung his arm overhead and down, finger pointing ahead.

            The stranger knight had been trying to keep him from crossing the Wash, Hugo realized, and frowned; this wasn't in the history Angus had told him.  On the other hand, he had also said the historians never bothered with every last detail, only the important ones.

            The train curved left, following the road to the ford.

            In the time lab of the 1960s, Yorick held up the top layer of a huge folded pile.  "Okay, this is a seine."

            "Looks like a net to me," Ella said.

            There were four of them, all wearing wet suits, air tanks, masks, and fins.

            "That's right, a net."  Yorick nodded.  "Only it's weighted along the bottom with floats on the top to hold it straight up,—so they call it a seine.  It’s also very big – and in our case, very, very long.  This one has a finer mesh than most, to keep the tide from sweeping gold coins right through."

            'So we're going to rig this thing from one side of the beach to the other?" Jobe asked.

            "That's right."  Yorick held up a mallet and a huge staple.  "Drive these into the lower edge to hold it, then weight down the bottom even more with rocks, the biggest you can find.  It'll catch the treasure.  All we have to do is make sure that the net stays in place."

            "And empty it after we've caught all the loot," Jobe said.

            Yorick nodded.  “If it’s in seine, it’s ours.  He patted the circular bin that held the seine.  "One load at a time.  We fill this barrel and Doc will bring it back here.  The headquarters crew will hoist it out and put in an empty, and we'll just keep the relays going until it's all back here.  Any questions?"

            One by one they shook their heads.

            "Okay, turn on your air and let's go."  Yorick put in his mouthpiece and turned his back.  Ella started his air flowing, checked the meter.  Yorick gave her the thumb's up sign as he pivoted back.  The others turned on their air; each held up a thumb.  Yorick turned to Angus with another raised thumb, and Angus hit the button.

            In the thirteenth century, the surface of the Wash pushed up four huge domes of water that collapsed into waves, bubbles, and foam.  The tide boiled briefly, then rolled on as it always had.

            Below the surface, Yorick and his crew were busy, stringing the seine from one side of the beach to the other.

 

            Peasants came from their hoeing to watch, lining the road to see their king pass by.  No matter how they despised him, he was still entertainment.  Following the royal train, Hugo heard one of the locals ask another, "Hadn't we ought ter tell 'un, though?"

            "Nay," the other answered.  "Let 'un find out for 'unself."

            If it had been Richard, of course, they would have come forth in an instant—but then, with Richard, they would never have thought for a minute that they might have been punished for their impudence.

            So King John's treasure train rolled ahead to its appointment with destiny.

 

            Beneath the water, Ella finished hammering the last peg into the bottom of the Wash and swam over to Yorick, making the swab-O sign.  Yorick nodded and handed her a bucket.

 

            Hugo had gained on the royal train—in fact, he was close enough to hear the knight with the strange device on his shield say to John, "It is late, Majesty.  Mayhap we should bide the night and cross at first light."

            Hugo looked up in alarm.  If they waited even fifteen minutes, they would see the tidal bore come rushing in like an express train. 

            "Rise at sunrise?"  John shuddered.  "And stay the night without an inn?  Let my treasure stay out in the cold with only sentries to protect it?  Are you out of your mind, Gorier?"

            "Only concerned for your welfare, Your Majesty."

            "But not for my gold's."  John settled back against the cushions.  "We must ford this beach this day."

            "But the hour..."

            "What do you mean, prattling on about the lateness of the hour?" John demanded.  "The sun is still high in the sky!  We march!"

            "As Your Majesty will have it," Sir Gorier sighed.

            Hugo relaxed.  Perhaps this was the way events had originally happened, after all.  Who would have written down a detail such as advice from an unknown knight?

            Still, the knight was indeed unknown—and John was right, it wasn't even mid-afternoon.  The treasure would certainly be safer for the night in an innyard.  Why would Sir Gorier be counseling him to wait?

            "They have come to the ford, Majesty."

            "Good."  John nodded.  "Proceed."

            Of course, Hugo couldn't accompany them into the water—that would have been far too obvious; one of the knights might have cut him down where he stood.  Worse, the sergeant might have pressed him into service, and Hugo had no desire to become a soldier.        

            The spearmen strode into the water without wincing, though their boots and leggins must have been soaked through in an instant—the water was knee-high.  The knights rode after them, high and try astride their tall destriers.  Then John's horses stepped in.  The water churned a foot below the bottom of his palanquin, but the king was dry.

            The first treasure wagon rolled into the water, then the second and third.  John's horses were climbing out as the last wagon trundled into the ford.  Across the Wash they went, the water lapping up to the hubs of their wheels.  Hugo stared, seeing all twelve wagons in mid-stream, feeling the first touch of excitement as a distant rumble swelled into a roar.

            There it came, a wall of water eight feet high, rushing toward the beach like an express train.

            John turned to look, saw the tidal bore, and clutched his head, screaming—but the bellowing of the waves drowned him out as the water-wall slammed into the wagons.  It bowled them over, surging onward, hiding the wagons from sight.  Then it was gone, rushing away upstream and diminishing as it went.  The water lowered and the wheel-rims were dimly visible above the angry waves.  The tidal bore had overturned every single wagon.

 

            Below the surface, Yorick and his crew were swimming about frantically.  The seine was nylon; it held the weight as gold cups and plates filled it along with an avalanche of gold and silver coins—but some of the coins fell through and sailed on downstream, and as the net bulged, its lower edge pulled away from the bottom here and there, letting occasional cups and bowls squeeze through as the mounting weight behind them pressed harder and harder.  Yorick swam here, swam there, snatching coins out of the stream.  Then he saw a golden urn rolling along the bottom and kicked his fins to drive him over.  He snatched up the urn, tucked it under an arm, and pushed coin after coin into it.  Rings and necklaces sailed along on the current; he stuffed them into the urn along with the silver pennies.

            Then, finally, the surge had passed.  Yorick took the first of the stack of bins, handed it to Ella, and took one for himself as the rest of the crew swam over.  Yorick put his urn into the bin as he dragged it over to the bulging seine and filled it with a cascade of gold and silver coins.  With the bin in place, he swam back to the center of the beach, knowing the focus of the time machine would be on him as soon as he activated the call signal.  Pressing against the middle of the net, he pressed the button—and the center of the net disappeared.  Gold and gems hurtled down in an avalanche—but instead of dropping to the bottom, the cascade disappeared even as it fell.

            The agents pulled the seine loose from the bottom as it emptied and swam back toward mid-Wash, funneling the treasure into the time machine's vortex.  When the last of it was gone, they folded the seine around the few pieces left and swam into the vortex themselves.  Yorick was the last to enter; the time-gate closed, and the tide rolled on as it always had.

 

            John sat in the litter, his head in his hands, and Hugo could almost have felt sorry for him if he hadn't remembered the list of John's cruelties.  The water was still so loud, though, that he certainly couldn't hear what Sir Gorier said as he rode up beside John's palanquin, pointing toward the waves.  John only shook his head in despair, and Hugo breathed a sigh of relief; it would have been very embarrassing for local divers to have encountered frog-men.  There would certainly be peasants enough diving for leftover silver pennies in the next few days, but if the chronicle was accurate, they would find very few.

 

            In the time lab, Yorick landed belly-down on a heap of gold, feeling for a moment like a medieval dragon guarding a hoard.  He pushed himself to his feet and went stepping and sliding down the ramp of treasure that spilled down out of the time machine to fill the lab.  Walking across a beach of gold coins, he pulled out his mouthpiece and came up to Angus grinning.  "Mission accomplished."

            "I'll say it is!"  Angus stared down at the piles of treasure in disbelief.  "Uh—you don’t suppose this is stealing, do you?"

            "Stealing?"  Yorick stared at him in amazement, then grinned.  "No way, Ang!  It's salvage, that's all.  Check your history books—none of this was ever found."

            "Yeah, and now we know why."

            "Come off it."  Yorick kept his grin.  "You didn't see the way that tide was racing, Angus.  It would have spread this loot all along that beach, and it was stirring up so much silt that most of it would have been buried that very day.  The rest would have been silted over the day after that, and by the end of the week, it would have been buried deep.  No wonder nobody ever found it."

            "If you say so."  Puzzled, Angus asked, "Why do you suppose a king would take his wagons across the shallows instead of building a proper bridge?"

            "Too expensive," Yorick said immediately.  "King John was a miser, Angus—didn't want to spend a penny more than he had to.  Probably figured shallow water was all he could afford."

            Angus still looked dubious, but said, "It's ours, then?"

            "Hey, we worked for it."  Yorick pulled a coin-filled golden vessel out of a bin and presented it to him.  "A penny seined is a penny urned, Ang.  Don't worry about the details.”

            "I suppose."  Angus looked around him and finally grinned.  "We have definitely increased GRIPE's liquid assets."  Then he looked up with a frown.  "You don't suppose this counts as money laundering, do you?"

            "Well, Yorick said, "we really cleaned up – and according to history, it all came out in the Wash."

 

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