London, England. Summer 1562.

Thus, I was captured and the soldiers bound my wrists with coarse rope and led me behind their horses, away from my plane. As we neared the city, I saw that all of the people were dressed in old time garb, almost like from the Middle Ages. Everyone turned to stare and gawk at me as I was led through the streets. It was alright though, because I must admit that I was gawking right back. My jaw dropped as I marveled at the buildings around me. There were stands filling the streets with people selling their wares, old timey taverns, cobblers, and all sorts of other businesses that were not relevant at all in 1940. The city was unexpectedly large for what looked like a medieval era town. My curiosity eventually got the better of me, and I got the attention of one of my captors.

"Sir, what city is this?" I asked.

"This be London, the great capital of England." He snapped, like that was the stupidest question he had ever heard.

I nearly fell over in shock. I had spent many months in London, training in the Royal Air Force. I thought that I knew London like the back of my hand, both from the air and on the ground. This place however, was foreign to me.

As we made our way closer to the immense castle a short way outside of the city, this started to feel less like a dream and more like something that was really happening. As the castle drew nearer, we were confronted by what appeared to be royal guards. He assumed as much due to the special clothes that they wore with the Queen's coat of arms upon it.

"What have we here, lads?" One of the royal guards asked as we halted at the gate.

"We found a stranger in the fields. The peasants were saying he fell from the sky in a cloud of smoke!" One of my captors exclaimed. I sighed. I knew I was in deep shit. They could never understand what had happened, and it was extremely easy to be accused of witchcraft. It was not a crime that was easy to disprove, especially in such times as what appeared to be the 1500's or something close to it.

"A warlock, eh? What do you have to say for yourself, servant of Satan?" The royal guard asked as he spat at my boots.

The truth was that I had no way to defend myself against a charge like this. I could not very well explain that I came from hundreds of years in the future and that I had come here in an aeroplane. They would either assume that was the result of witchcraft or declare me a lunatic.

"There's nothing I can say that you would believe, but I am no witch!" I cried out, not knowing what else I could say.

"Well, no one is going to defend you, warlock?" The guard jeered as I tried desperately to keep my wits about me. My world was spinning.

"What shall we do with him?" One of my captors asked the royal guards.

"I think that her majesty, Queen Elizabeth, might like to feast her eyes upon a real-life warlock before we burn him at the stake, like the heretic he is." The leader of the royal guards was practically smiling as he described my fate.

Fear squeezed the air out of my chest and I felt cold all over. Being burnt alive had to be up there as one of the worst possible ways to die. I was desperate to avoid such a fate at all costs.

"Take him to the dungeon, her majesty will be informed of your capture." The royal guards teased as I was dragged forward by my bindings, the rope cuffs cutting into my wrists. I knew bloody well that any attempt at escape would be futile. Even if I could manage to free my hands, the guards' razor-sharp swords deterred me further. It would have been bloody suicide to try an escape under these conditions.

After 10 minutes or so, we reached the dungeon. It was everything that you would expect from a stereotypical medieval dungeon. No natural sunlight, the place dimly lit by the torches that had been set for the guards. It was dark, damp, and gloomy. Even a blind chap could have told you that it had not been cleaned in ages. There were two other prisoners in the dungeon with me. They looked as though they had been there for weeks on end, and they were none too pleased for me to join them.

"Don't bring him in here!" One of the men pleaded with the jailers as I was shoved into a filthy cell.

"Burn the warlock! Send him back to Hell with his lord and master, Satan!" The other prisoner spat as the guards locked the heavy iron door.

"I am not a warlock, please! You are making a mistake!" I pleaded, trying desperately to prove my innocence.

"Silence, you servant of Satan! You shall receive the fires of God's judgment before you are a week older." One of my newly found jailers shouted as he slammed his fist against my door. Clearly, pleading my innocence of joining the devil wasn't going to get me anywhere. I saw no other alternative but to bide my time and pray to the Lord that this was merely some dream or coma that I would soon wake up from.

But deep down, I feared that this was something else entirely from which an escape would be nearly impossible.