Hope for the Best

by Jodi Taylor

  And then, because what goes up must come down, massive pieces of stone plummeted downwards, wiping out the few boats that had somehow managed to stay afloat. Great plumes of dust swirled through the air, but through them I could see the river and both banks were a scene of devastation.

  Stone and rubble dropped around us. I curled into a ball and trusted to the god of historians.

  The rumble went on and on and what remained of the bridge cracked apart, broke up and toppled slowly into the water. Whether they’d intended it or not, the river now was not only uncrossable but completely impassable, too. It would be years, if ever, before anyone could get a boat upriver again. Dirty water swirled around me. Someone caught my wrist, otherwise I’d have been washed away. Already, the water was beginning to rise behind the newly formed dam. As if London didn’t have enough to contend with, there was about to be massive flooding, too.

  Those buildings on both banks not already destroyed by fire had been flattened by the blast. The church was on fire. Shattered buildings and burning thatch had been blown everywhere. People lay like broken dolls, either stunned or dead. I kicked a burning plank off my legs and tried to sit up. I didn’t seem to have incurred any great injuries but it looked as if a small cottage had fallen on Bashford, and Clerk’s legs were protruding from beneath a pile of smoking thatch. I could only hope the rest of him was still attached.

  I thought at first that the screaming had stopped. That this catastrophe was just one too many and people had no more capacity for terror. Then I realised the blast had made me deaf. I waggled my jaw about to try and clear my ears.

  The smell was stomach-churning. Sulphur is not a good smell, but the smell of roast meat is much, much worse. Especially when you realise who the meat had been. I climbed on to my knees and heaved, bringing up the pizza that seemed rather a long time ago now. Fortunately for me, most of it missed Miss North. She would never have forgiven me.

  The state of the citizens was pitiful. Where there had been shouting, screaming chaos, there was now just stunned silence. I hadn’t gone deaf after all. People hunched, white-faced, staring at the place where their bridge had been, struggling to take it all in. One by one, slowly, they tried to get to their feet. I could hear the occasional whimper.

  Someone heaved me to my feet. The river was beginning to surge around us. I could hear the gurgle of rising water. We needed to get out of here. Ellis was checking over his team. Clerk, emerged from the thatch, was checking over his. I was checked by both of them, as befitted my anomalous position. A foot in both camps, so to speak.

  We gathered around Ellis. ‘Back to our pod,’ he ordered. ‘Clerk – Maxwell, keep an eye on your people.’

  The rest of our journey back to the pod was by no means so arduous. Most people were sitting or lying motionless, huddled together in shock. One or two wandered, dazed and lost – the rest had sought shelter. Doors were being bolted, windows made fast. I think Londoners were realising there was no escape now and their safest bet was to lock themselves away and hope for the best.

  The pod was almost buried and we had to kick aside a great deal of charred debris before we could get in. Fortunately, pods are very robust.

  We crowded inside and sat, squashed together, on the floor. Time Police pods are not over-endowed with facilities, although there was a kettle in this one. Clerk peered dubiously at his paper cup of brown water, politely said thank you, and then carefully set it on the floor beside him. ‘Nice headdress, Max. I see you’re wearing the Time Police brand.’

  There was a pause. Clerk played with his cup of alleged coffee, turning it round and round on the floor beside him.

  ‘Well, go on,’ I said. ‘Report.’

  He nodded to North. ‘If you would, please, Miss North.’

  Good choice. A complete lack of empathy with the human race and an inbred conviction of superiority dating back to the Conquest means that North briefs better than anyone.

  She cleared her throat of London dust and began. ‘We landed in Tilbury. The whole place was on fire. The few ships that were still there were burning or deliberately scuppered. Like you, we couldn’t believe what we were seeing. We couldn’t get anyone to talk to us or tell us what was happening and when we tried to question some men outside a tavern, some soldiers turned up and things got rather ugly. There were accusations of enemy agents and spies, so we decided we’d be in a better position to find out what was going on in London itself.’

  ‘And no one thought to return to St Mary’s to report these anomalies and get permission to investigate further?’ asked Ellis.

  St Mary’s stared at him in complete incomprehension.

  ‘Who calculated the new coordinates?’ I interrupted.

  ‘I did,’ said North, ‘with Mr Clerk. Mr Bashford checked them.’

  ‘Well done.’

  She inclined her head, accepting the praise with practised ease and continued. ‘We arrived this morning and found the situation to be not quite as bad as it is now. Clerk and Bashford went to The Tabard to see what information they could gather. Mr Evans and I walked the streets, talking to anyone we could persuade to stop and give us the time. There were all sorts of rumours flying around. The fleet had been sunk. The queen had fled. The French had landed. The Scots were burning the north. And so on.’

  She paused. ‘Like you, I assumed that when they said queen, they meant Elizabeth. No one had mentioned any names – it was always the queen had done this or the queen hadn’t done that – and we were quite a long way into the conversation before someone actually said Jane. We were talking to some old drunk at the time and as soon as he said Jane, I requested Mr Evans escort our friend to a more discreet location where we could question him more thoroughly.’

  Ellis was regarding her with admiration. I made a note to tell him that if he made me a decent offer he could have her.

  ‘No point in messing about,’ said Evans modestly. ‘I picked him up by the scruff of his grubby neck, took him round the back of a church and threatened to thump seven shades of shit out of him if he didn’t tell us what we wanted to know.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘Mr Evans was very persuasive,’ said North calmly. ‘And there was a rain butt nearby. I think it was probably the first time most of him had seen water for years.’

  ‘It was a long business,’ said Evans. ‘We had to keep giving him time to recover. And he threw up twice, but we got there in the end.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve just invented waterboarding?’

  ‘It was Miss North’s idea,’ he said quickly.

  It probably was, too.

  ‘Anyway, to cut a long story short, as far as we could ascertain, Mary and Elizabeth didn’t live long enough to ascend the throne. When Edward died, Jane became queen. And is still on the throne. Or would be if she hadn’t fled to Holland.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘I don’t think either Elizabeth or Mary would have run away.’

  ‘I am inclined to agree.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Ellis. ‘You’re telling me that Edward died and they couldn’t dredge up a male heir from anywhere? What about Scotland? Didn’t they have a couple of spares knocking around up there?’

  ‘That was the whole problem,’ said North, turning to him. ‘There were seven legitimate heirs to the throne after Edward’s death and every single one of them was female.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  I shook my head. ‘Don’t ever let anyone tell you the Tudors weren’t all about women. Even setting aside all Henry’s queens and their impact on History, his older sister, Margaret, had a granddaughter – Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots – and no one wanted her. His youngest sister, Mary, had two daughters, one of whom was Frances Brandon, who herself had three daughters, Jane, Catherine and Mary Grey. Henry himself had only two surviving children – Mary and Elizabeth. Mary was a staun
ch Catholic and not even to be considered and I suspect Elizabeth was showing signs of being a proper little madam even then.’

  North nodded. ‘The Lord Protector, Northumberland, determined to manipulate the succession to his advantage, allied with the Brandons and they selected the supposedly docile, impeccably Protestant and, above all, easily controlled Jane Grey. Which, it would seem, has turned out to be the biggest mistake of their lives, although to be fair, she was very much an unknown quantity at the time. Anyway, Edward was dying. Northumberland saw his opportunity and married Jane to his son Guildford.’

  A number of Time Police shifted impatiently. It had been a long time since they’d been allowed to shoot anyone and were probably going through withdrawal symptoms. I asked Ellis if we should throw them a banana, but only because I knew their weapons were safely out of reach by the door.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Clerk, picking up his drink, sipping it and putting it down rather quickly, ‘there she is – little Jane Grey, outwardly living the life of a high-born Protestant maiden with royal connections. Well educated, very intelligent, rigorous in her duty to her family and to God, and, although no one knew it at the time, a bit of a monster.’

  North frowned at him and continued. ‘We know she was initially reluctant to marry Guildford but, with hindsight, that might have been because secretly she had her own ideas. As did her father-in-law, Northumberland, who concealed Edward’s rapidly failing health while he laid his plans and got his people into position.’

  Clerk took up the tale. ‘The first thing he does is send for Mary and Elizabeth. They must be brought under his control and neutralised. Both of them set off – that we do know, but this is where it all goes to shit, Max. At some point, Mary is poisoned en route. Probably by another of Northumberland’s sons – Robert Dudley.’

  ‘The one who goes on to become Elizabeth’s boyfriend?’

  ‘That’s the one. Except that now he doesn’t because Elizabeth never reached London either. Mary’s death left her dangerously exposed as the last remaining direct descendent of Henry. She was ambushed outside the city and never seen again. It’s thought she was executed there and then – at the roadside – but no one really knows. Or if they do they’re not saying.’

  She paused and glugged some water. ‘So that’s both Henry’s legitimate heirs dead. Edward died on 6th July, although the news was withheld until Jane was proclaimed queen on the tenth and Northumberland rubs his hands together in triumph.’

  I nodded, fascinated by this alternative timeline. ‘And then?’

  ‘And then it all goes wrong for him. Having been crowned queen, Jane breaks free of his influence. She refuses to make her husband king. Worse than that – he dies under mysterious circumstances.’

  I was trying to keep up. ‘Guildford? Guildford dies? How? Don’t tell me she killed her own husband?’

  I don’t know why I was surprised. After all, Mary Stuart murdered her husband and Fat Harry changed his wives more frequently than his underwear.

  Clerk emphasised the point. ‘Well, she was a Tudor, after all. Religiously fervent. Pragmatic. Determined. And utterly ruthless. As she showed with Guildford’s death. Northumberland, by now probably in fear for his own life and feeling his power draining away by the minute, is summoned to her presence and arrested.’

  I could picture him sweating in his fine robes in the hot summer sunshine, as he suddenly realised he’d created the instrument of his own death. A monster who had turned on him.

  ‘And now the religious factor kicks in. England wasn’t yet wholly Protestant but it was on the brink. At that point the country could have gone either way and with Jane on the throne it went Protestant. Big time. They talk of rivers of blood, Max, and Jane has waded through oceans of it. As of this moment, she has burned, beheaded, hanged, tortured and mutilated more people than all her Tudor predecessors combined, earning herself the soubriquet “Bloody Jane”. It’s a real reign of terror. There are widespread arrests and people mysteriously disappear all the time. And don’t confuse her with Fat Harry, roaring his way down the corridors of power, loud, fat and imposing. Jane is small, slight, softly spoken and utterly deadly. Everyone is terrified of her. She’s escaped so many attempted assassinations that the Pope has publicly proclaimed her to be in league with the Devil and has offered a free pass to heaven for anyone who can get rid of her.’

  ‘What’s happened to her parents?’ I asked, curious.

  ‘Father under house arrest. Mother just . . . disappeared.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve often wondered why Frances Brandon wasn’t proclaimed queen. As Jane’s mother, her claim was even greater than Jane’s.’

  North shrugged. ‘I suspect one reason was that Frances was married and therefore legally submissive to her husband. Northumberland had better control over Jane. Or thought he did. My suspicion is . . .’

  ‘What?’ said Ellis.

  ‘Jane had her killed.’

  I nodded. Half an hour ago I’d have scoffed at the idea. Now . . . now I was more than prepared to believe six impossible things before breakfast.

  ‘And what does the rest of Europe have to say to all this?’

  ‘Well, the Emperor Charles V was furious over the murder of Mary. She was his cousin, of course. He invaded twice. 1554 and 1555. The Pope sanctioned Jane’s murder by making it widely known that political assassination of the enemies of Christ would incur God’s pleasure. And Philip of Spain, of course, had two problems. Not only was he very keen to prevent any sort of alliance between the Protestant Netherlands and England, but there was always his long-standing fear of France. Spain was always wary of any agreement between France and England which would tip the balance of power in Europe.

  ‘Jane herself doesn’t help, making enemies wherever she goes, especially in Scotland. Apparently, she took to calling herself the rightful queen of Scotland as well, declaring the Catholic Mary Stuart a false pretender.’

  ‘Yes – what of Mary Stuart?’

  ‘Publicly beheaded at Fotheringhay and people didn’t like it. Really, it’s not surprising everything blew up in Jane’s face – the only wonder is that it took so long.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Well?’ said Ellis to me.

  ‘I don’t know what to say. This is . . . unbelievable. How could any of this possibly have happened?’

  He shrugged. ‘Someone somewhere has changed something. It’s as I said, Max, the 16th century was very popular. Wherever you looked there were people trampling the bluebells. It would probably have been something tiny and inadvertent and no one noticed.’

  I sat back, thinking. Whoever had done it was almost certainly dead anyway. History would have dealt with them, but whatever they had done had given birth to this . . . this spur . . . this false timeline . . . this bubble. Call it what you will.

  I turned to Ellis. ‘So, is the temporal instability the cause of this . . . this rogue History, or is the rogue History the cause of the temporal instability?’

  ‘A very good question.’

  We waited.

  He spread his hands. ‘I’m sorry, we’ll probably never know and at the moment it’s not important. Our main problem is how to put it right. And the first thing we must do is get St Mary’s out of here.’

  I looked up at the screens. The scenes were sickening. London burned before my eyes. The only people remaining now were those too old, sick or injured to drag themselves out of the way of the armies who would crush them in a three-pronged approach.

  England was a battleground. Protestantism would die under the twin hammers of Spain and France. The Inquisition would come to England. I wasn’t sure about the Stuarts – given their inclination towards Catholicism they might remain as puppet monarchs, but the Hanoverians would never happen. No Industrial Revolution. England would become a theocracy. The ramifications spread far and wide. There might be n
o America. The French and Spanish would split the continent between them – the French would take the northern territories and the Spanish would hoover up the rest.

  How? How could this have happened? What tiny event sparked this massive catastrophe? We’d never know. History was well and truly off the rails and we had to do something about it. And quickly.

  I gestured around. ‘For how long will this timeline be stable?’

  ‘You mean in this particular bubble? No idea. Could be ten minutes. Could be a hundred years.’

  ‘How can we fix it?’

  ‘Well, I rather think this might be a St Mary’s area of expertise, Max. Somehow, we have to find the tipping point. That moment when some little detail changed and re-routed the 16th century.’

  ‘And having found it – use it to put things right.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘Can you give us thirty minutes?’

  ‘To . . . ?’

  ‘To have a bit of a think.’

  ‘Fancy another coffee?’

  ‘What a good idea,’ I said brightly.

  10

  There was silence in the pod. Even the Time Police sat staring at the floor, apparently lost in thought. Except for the pilot, Grint, who fiddled with the controls on his console, awaiting instructions and apparently completely uncaring. I think he was slightly taken aback by our collaborative approach. Time Police operations do tend to be more These are my instructions. Go away and carry them out or die.

  ‘OK,’ I said slowly, ‘this tipping point . . . and feel free to stop me at any time.’

  They nodded.

  ‘It’s Mary. It all goes wrong because Mary never gets to London because she’s poisoned on the way.’

  North nodded. ‘I think that could be correct.’ I ignored the slight note of surprise in her voice. She probably didn’t know she was doing it. I was just grateful Sykes wasn’t here because the two of them would be locked in some kind of death-struggle by now.

  She continued. ‘Northumberland’s invitation is a trap. Both Mary and Elizabeth set out. Mary doesn’t make it – poisoned on the way. And with Mary dead there’s no need to keep Elizabeth alive so she’s executed. We think.’