A Call Through Time

By Tricia McGill

The Lord of Castlegrove Manor, heir to a vast fortune, is a studious History buff who loves reading about the years following the Roman occupation of Britain. Dissatisfied with running his extensive estate, a distraction from Bart’s boredom is his erotic dreams. No woman but his dream lover will ever offer him the satisfaction he craves.

During one of these dreams Bart wakes up miles from his comfortable existence and in the year 450AD. When he comes face to face with Haesal, he knows instantly this is the woman who has shared so many of his heated fantasies.

Most Celts have fled west to escape invaders from over the seas. Haesal and her brother have been captured by an evil barbarian and Bart comes to realise that his mission is to rescue them and return them safely to their home in Cornwall. Haesal’s belief in shapeshifters and the fairy folk helps her better understand the sudden appearance of this handsome stranger in her life who claims to have a deep knowledge of her. But can the love they find with each other survive through time and treachery

Reviews
“This is a wonderfully complex tale about a man in another time. Ms. Mc Gill is at her best describing the settings and making us feel as if we’re in ancient times, with the good and the bad – the deep forest and roman villages, the clothes and food are all brought to life for the reader. The characters are real and their story captivates... Interwoven with treachery and violence, the magic of the Celts, shape shifters and the old songs and legends, this story will sweep you into another time - one that you won’t want to leave!”
Reviewed by Jennifer Macaire for Wordweaving and MidWest Book review

“This is a fascinating time-travel. I was engrossed from the first page. As this is a time period that I also find fascinating, I was enthralled by the day to day details contained in this story. Life definitely wasn't easy for these people. This is definitely a book that I recommend to all lovers of time-travel romance.” Chere Gruver Simply Ebooks

“What I liked about this story was that it fit the period. I didn't notice any flaws in the delivery of the era, vocabulary of the era, etc. Authentic is the word I'm thinking of.” Belinda Palmer.

"...a wonderful love story packed with adventure. I'm not usually a reader of novels written in ancient times or any time that takes you out of the present but this is one I'm glad I didn't miss. Ms. McGill has created a great story that will pull you in and hold you captive until the very last page. Her writing style and description of the setting, characters, and happenings make it easy to follow no matter what category of romance you are accustomed to reading. I truly enjoyed this novel and I look forward to reading more of her works." Calley Moore

“Tricia McGill spins an adventurous tale that is full of rich history and a deep and profound love that spans lifetimes. I really enjoyed the travels and the gentle love that blossoms... Tricia McGill's writing style is warm and inviting with lots of great research woven into the story. The characters were believable and the plot well thought-out with many surprises. I highly recommend this for anyone who loves romance and love.”
Maria Desrosiers, eBook Reviews Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: BWL Publishing Inc.
• Release date: May 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773622477

Book preview

A Call Through Time

By Tricia McGill

Digital ISBNs

EPUB 9781773622477

Kindle 9781773622484

WEB 9781773622491

Amazon Print ISBN 9781773622507

Copyright 2017 by Tricia McGill

Cover art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

* * *

Dedication

This one is for all my fellow believers in reincarnation. Too many strange episodes have happened in my own life for it to be a myth. Or could it just be my vivid imagination up to tricks? Whatever, never let anyone dissuade you from your beliefs.

Chapter One

Castlegrove Manor, Near Colchester, England, present day.

The well-loved voice echoed in Bart’s head. He fought against waking, against losing the woman who haunted his dreams, but she faded into the mists of time, calling, Come back Brys. I need you.

As he came slowly to awareness on the tousled sheets, Bart groaned. As always, after leaving the golden-haired temptress, the ache of loss tore him apart.

When he saw it was ten past seven, he muttered, Hell! as he pressed a finger and thumb to his eyes.

The dream again! Time you put a real woman in your bed, Bartholomew Wesley Beaumont. But no flesh and blood woman would respond to his touch as his dream woman did. He could still see her slumberous eyes and her mouth, swollen and moist from his kisses. Could almost feel the silkiness of her flawless skin. Could feel the mole on her shoulder that his tongue played over.

Bart strode to the bathroom. Even beneath the needles of water, her image filled every fibre of his being, until even a faint smell of her perfume seemed to drift about him. Even now, his body throbbed to be a part of her again. Making love to his dream woman was turning him into a total wreck.

After showering, Bart stared at his reflection in the mirror. Good God, pull yourself together or you’ll be climbing back into bed like some lame-brained adolescent trying to continue where you left off. He stomped out of the bathroom.

* * *

Like a proud, battle scarred warrior, Castlegrove Manor stood in the middle of twenty acres of parkland. It had rained overnight, and Bart dodged puddles as he jogged along the path skirting the flowerbeds which Harry, the estate’s head gardener, tended, along with his two sons. Harry also acted as chauffeur to Bart’s mother, whose Daimler shared the lofty garage with Bart’s two vehicles.

Wolf, come here. At Bart’s call his wolfhound trotted to him. Bart rubbed its silky head. The dog whined softly as a small deer moved from the protection of the trees. Ears pricked, the deer, one of a small herd that roamed the estate’s parkland, took refuge behind a clump of bushes.

Bart loved his house and land passionately, but this morning it held little charm. After seeing to a few estate matters with his manager, he returned to the house, entering by the side door leading into the immense kitchen. After exchanging a few pleasantries with Harry’s wife Mary, his mother’s prized housekeeper, he went into the hallway and took the carpeted stairs two at a time.

His mother insisted on breakfasting in the formal dining room. Agnes did everything in the grand style befitting the Lady of the Manor. A fire burned in the grate, softening the austerity of the darkly carpeted room, where ornately framed oil paintings of Bart’s ancestors pompously adorned the walls. Bart found the sobriety permeating the room more stifling than ever this morning.

Good morning, Mother. He kissed her offered waxy cheek. You’re looking well. What a lie—Agnes looked older than her sixty-one years. After her husband’s death ten years ago, she’d taken to her bed for a year. Nowadays she only got up for a few hours each morning and then again each evening. Bart surmised her sickness was delusionary. If only she would go out into the fresh air more or take up some menial task, such as visiting the local sick, her demeanor would doubtless improve.

Have you thought any more about our discussion of yesterday, Bartholomew? she demanded from her end of the enormous mahogany table.

Bart shrugged, and then helped himself to a generous share of bacon, eggs and toast from the buffet. Sitting, he grimaced discreetly. How could I have forgotten? In truth he hadn’t given the argument a thought.

I take it you will be asking Gwen to marry you soon.

Bart gritted his teeth. No I will not. I flatly refuse to put Gwen through such misery.

Misery? How can you say such a thing? Her thin lips quivering, Agnes tossed her pristine serviette down. At thirty-five you should be a father. Don’t you want to see the family line carried on?

Bart muttered a curse. I have no intention of being forced into a marriage of convenience. There has to be more to life than sharing my future with a woman I do not love.

Love? Agnes scowled. I didn’t even know what the word meant when I married your father, and we had a reasonable marriage.

Bart forced back a sharp retort. He doubted if his mother conceived of what love entailed. Agnes took scant account of the feelings of others. No doubt once she produced a son and heir, his father never got near her bed, let alone her body. No wonder the poor old devil died before his time, he was probably glad to get out of his lacklustre existence.

Perhaps he was under a delusion and the woman of his dreams would never materialise. Should he marry Gwen and settle on second best? But how could he contemplate a loveless marriage?

Gwen would be an ideal wife for you, she shares your impeccable background. Agnes, as usual, took no heed of his indignation. Stiff in her chair, her prim mouth set rigidly, she bemoaned, You cannot turn your back on Gwen.

Bart could be just as arrogant—and twice as defiant. I am not about to let you browbeat me into doing something that would be a total disaster.

What about me? she wailed. I don’t wish to die before I see my grandchildren. I should have had more children—a daughter would have given me a brood by now...

The melancholy sadness act did little to endear her to Bart. She’d flatly refused to bear another child after his birth. Bart wondered what she would say if he told her his father passed this snippet on to him during one of their rare discussions. He sighed. It was a sad state of affairs to dislike one’s mother.

Bart put his glasses on and buried his face in the newspaper, and she went quiet. It didn’t take him long to read the paper from front to back. Speed-reading and a photographic memory were skills he’d honed at an early age. He glanced up as a tiny girl in a black dress and white frilled apron came in.

Slipping his glasses in their case, he stood as she began to take away his empty crockery. Thank you, Bridgett. She blushed to the roots of her hair as he smiled. This only made her more flustered, and he winked to put her at her ease. It didn’t do the trick, for she had to retrieve a dish before it crashed to the carpet.

I have a lot to discuss with Greaves today, Mother. And the accountant is coming at eleven; then, we’ll be out checking on the stock most of the afternoon. I’ll see you at dinner. Stop fretting. He tried to keep this advice gentle. I’ll give you all the grandchildren you want, if you’ll just be patient.

Bart could hear her petulant grumbles as he closed the door. He went to his office, where it was easy to put her words from his mind as he spent his day running the estate. From comments gleaned from local landowners he knew he was doing a good job, aided by his proficient manager. His accountant brought him up to date on the income drawn from the varied real estate he owned in London and Oxford.

* * *

After dinner, Bart went early to his bedroom, where, barefoot, he paced the plush carpet like a caged tiger. The embers of a dying fire settled in the grate. Although the house was centrally heated, he’d always preferred an open fire; especially on evenings like this when a blustery wind howled about the old house, and steady rain pelted against the windows. Adelle’s soft voice did nothing to soothe his jangled nerves.

Another minute in his mother’s company would have driven him barmy. Admittedly her argument was cogent. Bart understood why she wanted him to marry and start a family. He wanted that himself. But he hadn’t yet met the woman he wished to spend the rest of his days with.

Except in his dreams.

Gwen was certainly well credentialed to be the wife of the heir to a vast fortune, but she’d always known he had no intention of marrying her. They had drifted along companionably until it appeared that everyone assumed marriage was the next inevitable step, prompted by his mother’s not so discreet comments along the way to anyone who would listen.

A light tap on the door heralded the arrival of his valet. Bart looked up as Morton opened the door and stood just inside. Will there be anything more you require this evening, Sir?

No, thanks Morton. I don’t need another thing.

After Morton left, Bart sat on the brocade chair at the fireside to unbutton his shirt. Poor old Moreton had never come to terms with his master not being happy with servants fussing about. Bart’s university days were his happiest, when he’d been free to please himself.

After showering, he donned a toweling robe. Pulling back the plush velvet drapes, he stared out through the rain-splattered windowpane. His mother would never see that the pleasures of wealth could not compensate for the absence of love in your life. And he was very rich. His grandfather amassed a small fortune, and his mother brought considerable wealth along with her into the marriage. Bart considered this wealth he’d inherited, by no effort of his own, was undeserved. There were times he wished he could just walk away from it and travel the world, anything to compensate for the mind-numbing boredom. This was ungrateful of him, he knew, for most people would be only too thankful for their good fortune.

Dropping the robe on a chair, he climbed into bed and picked up a book. His insatiable urge to learn all there was to know about the years during and after the Roman occupation of Britain was a passion. This obsession with ancient history, especially the Dark Ages, had fueled his desire to be an archaeologist. And that is what he would have been, had not an ingrained sense of duty kept him here, bound by his obligations.

Lately, he’d been reading about the Fosse Way, one of the Roman highways. Bart read for over an hour, until he began to yawn. Placing the book on the bedside chest, he took off his wristwatch and his glasses, switched out the lamp and settled down beneath the quilt, his hands under his head.

With sleep came another dream. But the woman wasn’t there this time, and he gave a small sigh of disappointment as he sat up and looked about.

Chapter Two

The sand beneath him was cool. Rising cautiously, he almost hit his head on the roof of what he realised was a smallish cave. A prickle of goosebumps rippled over his skin, as absently he brushed at the sand clinging to his thighs. Startled by the fact that he was as naked as he’d been in his bed at Castlegrove, he whispered an oath. This was like no dream he’d experienced before—ever.

Intrigued now to see where this dream led him, Bart walked out into hot sunshine. The sand sifting through his toes was warm and the sun on his bare body added to the surreal feeling. Not since he was a toddler could he recall being so free of inhibitions. Seagulls overhead squawked shrilly, and waves gently lapped a beach that went for miles in both directions. He began to stride out, in the hope his dream woman waited further along somewhere like some siren.

Arms stretched wide in abandon, Bart set off at a run, only then realising that his usually neatly trimmed hair streamed out behind him like an unruly mane. He stopped, swaying, a perspiring hand shielding his eyes. Surely he’d stepped over a borderline between reality and fantasy, for this was certainly the most realistic dream ever—and why the heck was he naked?

Changing tack, he set off towards the trees fringing the beach. Beneath their sheltering branches, the coarse grass brushed at his thighs and whispered in the wind. Wildflowers nodded in a clearing along a path, so he headed that way under a canopy of leaves. The sweet fragrance of the flowers wafted around him. Pausing, he breathed in the heavy scent.

But as he inhaled, another much more pungent aroma hit him. Swiveling sharply at a small sound, he froze.

At the far side of the clearing sat ten weather-beaten riders—their skin dark and leathery—their shoulder length hair and long beards filthy and matted. Brightly patterned chest plates adorned their handsome ponies, whose manes were threaded with silvery strips. The animals were much better looking than their motley riders, who wore an assortment of rags.

The stink was overpowering, and instinctively Bart reached into his pocket for a handkerchief; only then remembering he was minus his trousers with their usual sharp crease. Belatedly, he shielded his genitals with his hands.

Welcome, Brys. The man at the front of the group urged his mount forward to stop a few paces in front of Bart. I am Arthgul. Bart understood this odd man and was so taken aback he momentarily forgot the vile odor emanating from the group.

I think you’re mistaken. Bart’s voice sounded familiar, despite the sense of unreality swamping him. I am The Earl of Castlegrove, Lord Bartholomew Wesley Beaumont of Essex. This he said with all his inbred hauteur. Pulling himself up to his considerable height, he glared down his nose.

The Arthgul fellow waved an indifferent hand. In the world you normally inhabit, that may be the name you go by, but while you are here you are Brys. The gravity in his tone seemed incongruous, considering his appearance.

Hang on. I don’t understand. Bart frowned as he glanced about. Where exactly is here?

You will come to understand soon. We are in Mercia. We… He encompassed his companions with a jerk of that same hand. "Are Celts, living in a land being overrun by Saxons, Jutes, and Angles—invaders from across the sea.

Bart rubbed a hand over his head. Right, so just what year is this? Good grief, this weird dream, or whatever, seemed to have thrust him back in time to somewhere in the vicinity of 400 to 500 AD, if this strange creature was to be believed.

Arthgul ignored the question. You have been brought here to undertake a task. In time all will be clear to you. His announcement was delivered with a dramatic touch of mystery.

I doubt it, Bart muttered. If this was Mercia, then they must be somewhere along the east coast, near the Humber River. But how did I get here, and who brought me?

You have come through time to fulfill your destiny, Brys, Arthgul proclaimed. Bart grunted incredulously, but the filthy guy ignored it. If that was true then there was nothing much to do but play along and see how things worked out. Perhaps he would wake up suddenly and find this was simply a confusing, but realistic, dream.

Please put these coverings on. Arthgul tossed a bundle to Bart. When he’d unrolled it he stared at the assortment of garments that consisted of a pair of baggy woolen ankle length breeches and a long doeskin shirt. Of course there were no underclothes, but then what could be expected from a bunch of heathens. A tunic of rough animal hide sporting a gilded breastplate of bronze scales completed the outfit. Once dressed, Bart slipped his feet into soft hide moccasins and, after looking to Arthgul for guidance, crisscrossed their leather ties around his calves.

When Bart straightened, Arthgul nodded. Now I will explain your mission. Invaders from over the sea are slowly pushing native Britons further to the west, and one family, who settled in Wessex, has been captured by a chief of the invaders. Most of the newcomers ignore the towns the Romans left behind, but this evil Germanic warrior, Garth, has taken over the Roman town of Lindum.

Bart knew the Romans departed in 410AD. What the heck was he supposed to do with fierce warriors? He really should stop reading about this period in history, doubtless it was affecting his mind.

Garth captured the son and daughter of Chief Targal, who was slain by this tyrant while trying to defend his family. Chief Targal’s only daughter must be freed before she is forced into the clutches of this Garth, and her brother forced into slavery, if not killed. It is important he be saved, for it is written that he will rule over his people one day.

Bart pressed a hand to his chest. What can I possibly do? I’m not a fighter—I wouldn’t stand a chance against this Garth. He sounds like a brute, so how can you possibly assume I’d do the least bit of good? You’ve got the wrong person, old man. I’m not up to this job you seem to have earmarked for me. Bart raked his fingers through the unfamiliar hair. Obviously he’d ended up in someone else’s dream.

Smiling slyly, Arthgul turned in his saddle and beckoned to one of his silent companions. A shriveled man resembling a monkey, dismounted and loped to Arthgul’s side. Pulling a pouch from beneath his soiled jerkin he handed it over, and hastened to remount.

Arthgul withdrew a chain from the pouch and weighed the heavy piece of jewelry in his palm, before crooking a finger. Come closer, Brys.

As Bart stepped forward on shaky legs, an odd sensation wafted over him. In that instant he knew for the present he was Brys as his old persona seemed to fade. Bartholomew, The Earl of Castlegrove, for whatever reason, receded. It was an eerie sensation, but Bart had the oddest feeling this meeting was pre-ordained.

As he stood beside Arthgul’s bedecked pony, Arthgul said gravely, This talisman has great and wondrous powers.

Brys bent his head and the chain was placed about his neck. As he straightened, fingering the pendant of gold that lay heavily on his chest, he knew his transformation was complete. On a chain of plaited gold, the extraordinary piece of jewelry was enameled in vivid shades of peacock, blue and aquamarine. Who made this?

A sorcerer whose power is as great as the mighty Merlin. Arthgul puffed up his chest. This rare gift will endow its wearer with more strength than a man could ever imagine to possess.

Brys stifled a laugh. There was no place in his life for such nonsense, or more precisely, there hadn’t been. The ancient Celts were definitely known as a superstitious lot, worshippers of horned gods and goddesses of battle, gods who ruled the woods and wild places. The Druids made human sacrifices, and sprinkled their altars with blood, so surely a belief in wizards and talismans wasn’t so farfetched.

Does Merlin really exist? Although a fanatical reader of ancient history, he’d never uncovered any solid proof the tale of King Arthur and the wizard Merlin, purported to have brought Arthur up in secrecy, was more than a legend.

I have never met the Great One, but his disciple possesses greatly respected knowledge that has come down through our Celtic ancestors from as far back as Cernunnos our ancient god.

Surely anything was believable since his flight from reality brought him here. Brys frowned. Since the talisman possesses such powers, why didn’t this sorcerer do the rescuing?

We do not question the Wise One, Arthgul delivered with grave dignity. The strength of the talisman can only be used by chosen ones.

And presumably I have been chosen, Brys muttered. Perhaps he would come to terms with all this, but still felt sure any minute he would wake up back in his bed.

It is so. Come, it is time we were on our way. Arthgul turned his pony.

It appears I have no say in the matter. Might as well be practical about it. His home was in another time and place. These strange men were his only link with that past. What could he do but follow them?

No one offered Brys a mount, so as they set off at a steady trot he loped at their side, trying to work out where he’d woken up and how far it would be to Lindum, or Lincoln as he knew it. Lincoln was inland from just above The Wash, so set them just north of Skegness, a fair distance from his home in Essex.

Once they left the forest, the terrain became rocky and barren—totally different to the green and leafy lanes of the England he was used to. Brys moved so effortlessly that at times he felt it wasn’t him moving, but the earth beneath his feet. He had no trouble keeping up with the light-footed ponies, now moving at a steady canter. The sensation that strange magic abounded here filled him.

This was surely a stranger journey than any traveled in his life. On and on they went, until arriving at a vast heather-carpeted meadow. Hills in shades of purple and green shimmered in the distance. When they neared a river winding its way through steep banks, rushing over rocks, Arthgul pulled his pony up and dismounted, saying, We will rest the animals.

Strangely, Brys didn’t feel tired, considering they’d been moving at an amazing speed. He’d lost all track of time, but guessed it to be early afternoon, for the sun was just moving from over their heads. Now his anxiety had worn off, he felt more alive than he had in years. For too long he’d just plodded along in the same rut, longing for something to happen to force him out of this rut. Well, boy, had that something happened.

After they’d watered the animals at a small beach, Brys copied the men and bent to drink. Arthgul posted a lookout on a small rise further along the bank, and the group sat