Read A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's) for Free Online

as they could possibly manage.
    They had braziers going outside. I stood with a family group and warmed my hands. Worryingly, I could barely feel the heat.
    Across from me, I could see the red and white booth through the snow, and next to it, the darker patch of shadow that was our camouflaged pod.
    Warmth. Light. Safety.
    Despite the fast falling snow, the crowd was still good-natured. Alcohol helped.
    I inched my way through the people, laughing and smiling at complete strangers. Fitting in. It was vitally important not to hurry. Not to disturb the flow of people as they streamed past.
    Then, just as I thought I’d made it – just as I drew level with the booth, some instinct kicked in. Something about the way the crowd was moving …
    I heard a cry of protest as a woman was shoved roughly aside and her escort shouted angrily. Risking a glance behind me, I could see two or three men, wearing all enveloping, black cloaks, which was surprising. Black was a rare and expensive dye before modern times. I suppose it enabled easy identification. Or intimidation, more like. One held something in the palm of his hand. Faintly, I caught an electronic beep. They’d found the pod. They were shouldering their way roughly through the crowd. You could tell they weren’t historians – they didn’t care about careful concealment. Their job was something else entirely.
    The crowd liked being shoved about as much as crowds usually do. There’s always someone who’s had that bit too much to drink and whose temper is, consequently, that bit easier to lose. In this case, there was a whole gang of them. Young men – apprentices probably – out for some fun, noisy and belligerent.
    I eased away from the shouting. Thoughtful family men were ushering wives and children out of harm’s way. I ushered myself along with them.
    A group of roughly dressed men issued from the beer tent; some to see what was going on and others to take a more participatory role.
    Sadly, I was even further from the pod than when I’d started. The huge press of people was pushing me in the wrong direction. I couldn’t even move my arms to elbow my way out and the ground underfoot was so rough that I was afraid I’d lose my footing and go down. With that thought, I stumbled over a rut and fell to my knees.
    A man swathed in two or three blankets and smelling strongly of drink, tobacco, and horses pulled me up again. I came up ready for trouble, but he was already moving away. I gasped my thanks. He nodded. Nothing sinister – just a disinterested act of kindness.
    I was caught in a dilemma. Go with the crowd? Rely on safety in numbers? Or try for the pod again? But what if I led them to it? Or had they found it already and were just waiting for us to return?
    Think, Maxwell.
    They wanted me. If I led them away then at least Leon, who was still out there freezing his bits off, could reach the pod and once he was there, all things were possible. In these temperatures, if neither of us found shelter soon, we were finished anyway. At least, as their prisoner, they would be bound to warm me up a little. Unless, of course, they just killed me here and now and left my body on the ice.
    I was roused from that pleasant picture by Leon seizing my arm and demanding to know, in some exasperation, why I was just standing here.
    ‘They’re everywhere,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to lead them to the pod.’
    ‘We’ll make a dash for it,’ he said. ‘It’s too cold to stay here any longer. Head down. Use your elbows. Get to the pod. I’ll cover your back.’
    ‘Are you armed?’
    ‘No. Go.’
    Head down, I barged through the crowd. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line and historians’ elbows are honed by years of practice.
    I heard a voice. ‘There! In the grey blanket!’
    I braced myself again for a bullet in the back.
    I was in a cathedral once. I can’t remember what I was doing there – trying not to burst into flames on consecrated