Sam often spent lunchtime strolling in the famous and narrow, cobbled street called The Shambles. If ever one place in York offered a sense of history and wonder, then this was the one with its overhanging, tightly-packed, Medieval buildings.

He’d visited the York Art Gallery, the York Railway Museum and the Yorvik Viking Centre among other places. The railway exhibits told the history of the train from the first slow, noisy, smoke-belching early steam trains up to the modern diesel and electric express trains. The art gallery gave a wonderful insight into works and the masters going back hundreds of years, and then, of course, the Yorvik centre was a superb insight into a period when yet another nation had invaded and left its mark on Britannia.

Having seen all of those places and been impressed by them The Shambles still felt ancient to Sam. Most of the small stores retained their shape because the lines of buildings on either side of the narrow street were ever dependent on each other to remain upright. For some of the retailers the idea of trading in this remarkable street was such an honour that they made minimum use of modern utilities. Water, gas and electricity were supplied, but some owners dulled the lighting to maintain the aged appeal of the exterior.

As he strolled along, squeezing between the camera-wielding tourists, Sam’s role at the bank was far from his mind. He often found himself standing in front of one of the many-faceted store windows, gazing at the wares and thinking what it must have been like in the Medieval years and before.

“What’s happened here … the empty antique unit has a buyer at last.” Sam approached and had often looked at the antique shop and wondered how the owners managed to sell enough to make ends meet. In the end they’d sold up and the place had been left empty for weeks. The old sign was still swinging outside but, of course, there was no window display.

Sam wiped one of the tiny, thick square windows and tried to peer inside. He was sure he’d seen a movement at the back of the small store. Nose pressed against the glass, he squinted as he tried to see inside. Somebody was waving … a young woman by the looks of it. Sam looked left and right, and while there weren’t many people around, he walked into the recessed doorway and turned the handle. The door opened, and he heard the tinkle of an old bell overhead as he stepped inside.

“Hello, I’m Becky,” a sweet voice said from the darkness at the back of the store.

“Hi, Becky. What are you doing in this place?” Sam couldn’t see the girl clearly.

“I’m on a historical journey. Come closer.”

“It’s a bit dark.” Sam moved left and right as he tried to focus on the person not far to his front. “Where are you going?”

“I’m almost there now, Sam.”

“How do you know my name?” He was intrigued and thought this might be a prank.

“I know lots of things. For example, if we look at this fine city, there are modern aspects but I’m more well-versed in York’s history. The Peasant’s Revolt reached here in the 13th century, oh, and long before that, the Vikings had spent time here. If we go back to a time before the Norsemen, the Romans built the first defensive walls of wood and then, later; stone. Did you know that the Romans maintained a fort here while they set their sights on heading farther to the north?”

“Actually, I’ve always fancied a trip to modern Rome, but I doubt if I’d have survived back in the days when they were stomping around here.” Sam was entranced by her voice in the darkness.

“I suppose you’re one of those young men who sees himself as a Judah Ben Hur, a man taken from all he knows to be tested to within an inch of his life?”

“I thought all men had those dreams, or are they fantasies? It’s fine thinking of becoming a racing driver or astronaut but to be truly pushed I fantasise about our history when I’m on my virtual reality console. I think we’d learn more by going back in time and not forward.”

“Why don’t you come forward right now—join me, here.”

“I can hardly see you. Are there no lights working?” Sam ventured farther into the old shop and, after a few tentative steps, gained confidence. He walked towards the pretty face he could barely see in the shadows and Becky’s smile prevented him from taking interest in much more.

Sam didn’t notice an overhead beam in the old building. Until he struck his head on it.

* * *

“Come on lad, you’d have to take more punishment than that if you were in gladiator training.”

Sam was stooped forward with his left hand on his knee and his right hand rubbing his bruised head. “Gladiator training?” he murmured as he straightened and looked at the person who’d spoken.

The man was at least six feet tall, had long unkempt brown hair and a full beard. He had a ruddy complexion and a twinkle in his eye. More than all of these things, his clothes were remarkable. Although the fellow was heavily built, judging by his hands and arms, his heavy, dun-coloured shirt and more close-fitting trousers were reminiscent of a time gone by. His sandals were rough and ready, which was in keeping with their owner.

“Pick up your sword, lad, and defend yourself.” The voice was deep and strong, but the tone was friendly and carried a hint of humour.

Sam looked down at the long piece of wood, which was shaped like a broadsword, complete with handle large enough for two hands. He stooped to pick up the simulated weapon as his mind raced to catch up with what felt like reality. As he curled his fingers around the handle, a foot in a sandal landed on the end of the wooden blade.

“Remember, lad … if you drop your weapon, you must regain control and protect yourself in an efficient manner.”

Sam wondered what was happening to him and if he was dreaming. He looked up at the bigger man and nodded, waiting for the next piece of advice.

“Dive, grip, roll and be prepared to fight and kill—or die.”

If this was a dream it was intense. Sam could feel the wood and the pressure of the man’s foot on the sword. He maintained his grip, drew the wooden sword back swiftly from under his opponent’s foot, and dived forward, before rolling and leaping to his feet. Sam pointed the tip of the wooden weapon at the big man’s throat. It felt natural—as if he’d carried out similar actions before.

“Good lad,” the bearded man said. “That’s more like it.” He raised his free hand and gently moved the weapon from under his jaw. “That’s enough for now, lad, let’s go and see if my Magda has food ready.” He placed a muscular arm around Sam’s shoulder briefly and ushered him forward.

They were in a small clearing in a forest and heading towards a narrow, well-trodden, earthen footpath. The smell of woodsmoke drifted in the air as they walked side by side between the trees. An aroma of barbecued meat blended with the smell of smoke.

Sam was now beginning to question his own sanity. Even in a vivid dream, he’d never experienced a sense of smell. He decided to react to everything as it occurred and hope that this peculiar situation would resolve itself.

The bearded man said very little during the short walk through the woodland before reaching a broader track. A small dwelling came into view, hardly large enough to be called a house, although it looked robust. The main structure had been constructed with timber and mud, and the roof looked like a heavy thatch. Two compact windows flanked the front door.

Several yards from the house, next to an open fire with a spit, a slender woman stood. She turned her handsome face, and, like the bearded man, looked to be in her mid-thirties. Rough rope belted the waist of her ankle-length brown dress. Her sandals were similar to the man’s. She adjusted her woollen shawl and shook her head, assessing the pair who approached. 

“I feel my Garth is determined to make a warrior out of you rather than a carpenter, young Sam.” She squinted as she looked at Sam’s face, focussing on the bruise to his forehead.

“Perhaps I am.” The bearded man laughed. “He might not be my flesh and blood, but this lad will learn to fight as my father taught me.”

“I should be grateful that you only teach him with a wooden sword, Garth.” the woman half-turned.

“Perhaps, Magda.” The bearded man chuckled.

Magda said, “Come and sit with me a while, Sam. You can have a bowl of nettle tea before supper.”

Sam stepped forward and sat on one of the three-legged stools near the open fire.

“Ah, woman,” Garth said. “No wonder the lad drops his guard occasionally … you have him soft.” He laughed and went indoors, still chuckling to himself.

Sam was completely lost and as he accepted the clay bowl of tea, he grasped his opportunity. “When I recovered my knock to the head, I realised how lucky I am.”

“Good fortune comes to those with a kind heart and honourable intentions, Sam.”

As kind as the statement might be, it didn’t tell him much. He needed to know if he was already home or had to get home, quite apart from not knowing which way to go. Apart from those things, he had to find out where the hell he was. “Do you believe I have those attributes … the kind heart and honourable intentions?”

“Those and much more besides.” Magda smiled at him and gently touched his hand. “You also have a kind face and a straight back. One day, a light breeze will blow a pretty girl your way.”

The seconds were ticking by, and he had learned no more than that this woman liked him.

Sam said, “The knock to my head also made me wonder … about who I am in this world, and how I would survive without you and Garth.” He paused and hoped he’d hit the right note. “I sometimes feel as if I’m on a long journey and can’t remember where I came from and where I’m going.”

Magda reached out again. “You haven’t had us for long, Sam, but since we took you in, you’ve become a fine young man and any journey you take will be a success.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder at the narrow track leading from the house to the woods. “I know I must have asked many times before, but could you tell me how I had the luck to arrive here to be with you and Garth?”

“You’ve only been with us for a few days, and yes, you have asked before about your past. Sadly, we only know what we learn from your murmurings as you sleep. We were foraging in the woodland when we came across you lying on the ground.” Magda looked into her bowl of tea and then met Sam’s gaze. “We found you at the entrance to a cave … but ….”

“But what, Magda … please, tell me?”

“There is a mist within the cave and strange sounds emanate from beyond the mist. You had not been entering the cave, Sam.” She looked worried. “You were facing outwards so you had come from within, from the mist in the cave.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Only these past three days.”

“Of what have I told you since I’ve been here?” Sam wondered why he’d phrased his question in such a strange way. “Have I talked of my previous life or of a journey?”

“You say little in your waking hours but we … felt we must—”

“Please, Magda … you felt you must what?”

Garth’s voice was deep and quiet as he approached. “Sam, do not trouble Magda for answers she is afraid to give. I will tell you what you should know.” The big man pulled up a stool and wrapped a comforting arm around his wife as he sat down to face the younger man. “Our daughter was taken by a Roman patrol because the Centurion said she was with virtue and would make a fine bride.”

“What would a Roman patrol be doing here in the forest?”

“Yorvik is not far … it is but a short walk in the daylight hours. Since the Romans have established themselves, they breed animals to provide food. Many of the officers enjoy hunting expeditions into the forest. A hunting party passed the nearby settlement and happened upon our dwelling.”

“Are you saying they arrived here by chance and took your daughter away?”

“Yes, she is a beautiful girl and spent many hours in the forest alone, exploring and talking with the animals, birds and plants.” The big man smiled, but a tear came to his eye.

“I don’t understand how I could be connected to your daughter’s disappearance. I’m not a … Roman.”

“On the day she was taken, there was a great storm and the forest became as dark as the evening. It was on the following morning that the Centurion returned full of anger and demanded we say where our daughter was hiding. We were confused and dared to remind him that he had taken her from us. He told us that she had escaped amidst the darkness and the storm.”

“If this man was a Centurion, he would have had many men under his command, so how could your daughter escape?”

“It is not exciting to hunt with a hundred men in your party so when they come to the forest seeking sport, a Centurion might only be accompanied by five or six of his fellows.”

“After your daughter’s escape, and the Roman officer returned, did he not speak of retribution or suggest that you should reimburse him in some way?”

“He did,” Magda said. “He said we had until the sun set five times to save ourselves.” She sobbed.

Sam touched Magda’s hand and looked to Garth for more information.

Garth said, “The Centurion said he would find another maiden, but to appease him, when he returned, he wanted us to supply him with a man of suitable age to be used for sport.”

“The sword-fencing … the practice with me in the forest … is that so I can be given to the Centurion to calm his fury?”

Magda met his gaze. “We were reviving you near the cave, and when you opened your eyes you became wild.”

“Wild?” Sam shook his head, lost once again. “Please explain.”

“As you can see, my Garth is a big man, but he’s no longer a fighter, he’s a carpenter. You lifted both feet from the ground and kicked him away from you, but when he landed and reached for his dagger, it was in your hand and held to his throat.”

“Swords of Honour,” Sam murmured as he thought of the hours he spent on his virtual reality fencing game. He owned a dagger, a foil, a short-sword, a long-sword and a sabre, all suitable for plugging into the console. Without ever leaving his 21st century bedroom, Sam had fought in battles and duels, wearing his virtual reality headset and offering a serious challenge to his computerised opponents.

“Sam,” Magda whispered, “what are these Swords of Honour of which you speak … are you perhaps a young knight?”

The confused twenty-year-old looked at the imploring eyes of the couple. “Where did the wooden swords come from … the ones we were using in the clearing?”

Garth said, “I made them for the purpose of our duelling.”

Magda squeezed her husband’s hand as she addressed Sam. “Garth was once a man who wore a sword and used it in battle, but he has long since been a fine carpenter. His body bears many scars and his mind many more. Here in the forest, Garth now crafts furniture and playthings for the children in the village, and also wooden swords for the fathers and sons.”

“Okay,” Sam said. “Are you saying that your daughter was taken, and you were preparing me as best you could to let the Centurion take me as a gladiator trainee?”

Garth and Magda exchanged a look of embarrassment, and then both faced Sam and nodded.

Sam lifted a small burning twig from the fire and held it against an open hand until it burned him. “Shit.” He made another small burn on the same hand before he dropped the twig and then looked at the startled expressions of his companions. “It’s okay, it was a test of courage.” They would never have believed it was a test of reality.

* * *

The next morning a short while after breakfast, Sam, Garth and Magda walked to the cave in the forest.

“This is the place?” Sam said, looking from one to the other. “You’re sure this is the cave?”

“Look within,” Garth said and as brave as he might be, he stepped back.

“I see it,” Sam said, “I see the mist.” He started toward the opening.

“Would you leave us to the mercy of the Romans?” Magda’s words were not a question but a plea.

Sam paused and stared at the mist. He could hear faint noises beyond and among them a young woman’s voice whispered, “Please help them … for me, Sam.” He looked at his hand at the two burn marks from the previous evening and then he turned to the desperate couple.

“This is goodbye, Sam.” Garth extended a strong right hand. “We cannot ask that you offer your life for us.”

“Goodbye,” Magda murmured and wiped a tear away.

Sam said, “When did you last face battle, Garth?”

“Many months ago. I train regularly, but until you arrived here it has been against trees and sack-men I hang in the woodland.”

“Did you keep any of your weapons?”

“Yes, they’re wrapped and buried behind our dwelling so that I’m not seen as a threat. I train myself with the heavy wooden swords I make, like the ones we used for duelling.”

“How long do we have before the Centurion and his hunting friends return?”

Magda said, “We have until the sun sets one more time.”

“Show me your weapons, Garth,” Sam said and inhaled deeply, “the real ones.”

It was a short while later that Magda sat outside the small house cleaning and sharpening Garth’s longsword, short-sword and two long daggers.

The two men meanwhile, were in the clearing. In his fighting days, Garth had been accustomed to using his physical power when wielding a sword, but he was intrigued to be taught minor fencing tactics by the younger, slightly-built man. He had spots of blood where he had been prodded by Sam’s wooden dagger several times.

“Garth,” Sam said, “you have the power in your arms to separate a man’s head from his body, but you must also be able to fight close to your enemy.”

“The Romans are well-protected, Sam, and they are supreme fighters.”

“They may be, but they would not expect woodland folk like us to know of close-quarter tactics or fighting techniques. Instead of simply using the sword in the hand we must both practice a little deception. We may not win the day, but we’ll defend your Magda and die with honour.”

“You would have made a fine companion on the battlefield, Sam, my lad.”

At mid-day the pair returned to the small house to find bread, cheese and nettle tea to sustain them for their afternoon training.

Magda said, “Will one day be enough to prepare, Sam?”

Sam said, “We’re hoping that guile, sword technique and surprise will be on our side to even the odds.”

Garth gently laid a hand on Magda’s arm. “When we’ve eaten on the morrow you must have your small travelling bag ready and go to the place we agreed. If one of us does not come for you by the sunset, you must walk to where the sun arises until you cannot see, and then sleep before setting off for your sister’s place.”

Magda didn’t like the idea of not knowing the fate of the two men but she nodded.

* * *

The next day, an hour after an early meal, a horseman and four Roman foot soldiers strolled into the area near Garth’s open fire. A smile brightened the face of the Centurion as he looked down from his bay mount.

“Ah, woodsman, I see you have found me a piece of meat to be beaten and battered into shape in gladiator school.”

The other four Roman soldiers laughed. Two of them strode forward to grip Sam by the shoulders and pull him from his stool.

A loud scream came from the man with his back to Garth. The Roman fell to one side with an arrow in his gut, bleeding in his death throes, and the big man stepped away from the open fire. He produced his longsword from under his heavy cloak.

The man on Sam’s other side opened his mouth, but his scream died on his lips. The short sword, twisting and sliding from his gut was coated in blood and held by a frightened young man who’d never killed anything bigger than a wasp.

Marcus Magnus, the Centurion, slowly shook his head. “Perhaps those two men were not wary enough, and therefore are better dead. You two woodsmen, however, will not die here.” He turned to his two remaining companions. “Injure them but don’t slice off their arms or I won’t be able to crucify them. When we’ve finished and they’re secured we’ll have sport when we find the wife.”

During the short speech, Sam moved to press his back against Garth’s broad back. “Guile, not strength,” Sam whispered.

“To the death!” Garth roared and thrust his longsword at the nearest Roman.

The Romans had fought many battles and were hardened but more often than not their adversaries had tackled them with spears or short-swords. Training and working as a team had caused them to think and fight in a particular style. A giant of a man with a longer, broader sword was an unusual prospect. He might not be unbeatable, but he would, however, be difficult to injure without killing.

Parry followed thrust and the clashing of metal against metal endured for no more than five minutes before Marcus Magnus realised his folly. He was wrong to think that the first two fatalities were pure luck for the men in rough clothing. He climbed down from his horse as the man fighting against Garth fell face forward minus his sword arm and a serious amount of blood.

“One apiece, Sam.” Garth parted company from his young friend ready to face the true warrior. To the Centurion he said, “When your men come to find you, we’ll be ready to take down more of them.”

“Nobody knows of my hunting expeditions, woodsman.” He drew his sword. “When I have bested you, your two mutilated but surviving bodies will make fine sport for our dogs.” The Centurion lunged, and the blow was parried easily. “Perhaps you might enjoy fighting dogs … like yourselves.”

“I’d rather be a dog … than a pig,” Garth spat at him as they closed on each other. The big man pushed the Roman away, and they fenced as well-matched adversaries for many minutes.

Sam was weakening in his one-to-one match a few paces away. All the guile and virtual reality experience in the world was not sufficient to make up for a lack of physical fitness. He had met several deadly strokes with desperate, impulsive movements.

The Roman soldier aimed to slice down into his opponent’s shoulder but Sam slipped a hand under his hairy shirt and produced a long dagger. He crossed the hilt of the dagger and his short-sword to block the downward blow. The defence had worked but his upper body strength had gone and he stumbled backwards.

“Now, young woodsman, the soldier said, “I’ll make a few small cuts, but they’ll be painful.” He stepped forward. A light swishing sound occurred a moment before a long thin arrow pierced the Roman’s neck and went clean through from side to side, slicing the carotid artery. The man’s eyes opened wide, he dropped his sword and fell forward; dead.

The Centurion made an error he would never have dreamt possible. When he lunged and the move was parried, he hesitated for a second, to focus on the arrow in his colleague’s neck. There had been no sign of the big woodsman having a second weapon, but as the Centurion concentrated on the other man’s longsword a long thin blade was thrust up under his body armour. In disbelief, the Roman officer slowly shook his head as he looked around at his fallen comrades and then felt the long blade twist violently and draw from his ruined internal organs. The last thing he registered before he met his God was the sight of the woodsman nodding soberly down at him.

“Magda,” Sam gasped as he gained his feet. “You can use a bow.”

“Have you ever tried to kill a deer with a dagger, Sam?” The woman gave a faint smile.

The three worked together to strip the dead men and then heaved them into the small pen where Garth and Magda had two large pigs with a growing family. The Centurion’s horse was stripped of all livery and set free into the forest.

Sam stood at the mouth of the cave and hugged both Garth and Magda before turning to venture towards the mist within. He paused and turned. “You never told me your daughter’s name.”

“Her name is Becky,” Magda said. “Her hair is as gold as corn and her eyes as blue as the sea.”

Sam’s eyes opened wide, and his lips parted silently.

“Go forth, and be well, young warrior,” Garth said.

“Your daughter … Becky … will return to you,” Sam said and walked into the cave.

* * *

“Hey, are you okay?” The woman kneeling over Sam’s body was young and beautiful.

Sam looked around at the dimly lit room. “Where am I?”

“You’re in an old retail unit, but it’s being refitted so the lights are not working. I heard a thump as I passed. I pushed the door open and used the light on my phone to have a look around. Come on outside, away from all this dust.”

When they got outside, Sam recognised the young woman as a regular customer with the bank. “To show my thanks, may I buy you a tea or coffee?”

“Go on then, and you can tell me what you were doing in an empty unit.” The woman shook her head, and her long blonde tresses shone in the sunshine on the way to a nearby cafe.

Sam sat at the table, staring at her sparkling blue eyes. “What would you like to drink?”

She looked at the menu. “Nettle tea, I think.”

“I’m Sam. I work in the bank.” As he outstretched his hand, he squinted when he saw two small red burn marks on his palm.

The blue-eyed beauty grinned and took his hand. “Becky. I’m a travel agent.”

The End

Taken from Time after Time