Lies, Damned Lies, and History

by Jodi Taylor

  We weren’t given any time to stand and stare. Markham nudged me and nodded over my shoulder. I turned.

  This was the next thing we got wrong. As I said, I thought it would just be a case of a few wagons, sinking slowly into the quicksand as horses and drivers jumped to safety. I don’t know why I thought that. I never learn. My job takes me all over the place – sorry, used to take me all over the place – and the one thing I always forget is that nothing is ever as we think it will be.

  The baggage train was colossal. I couldn’t see the end. Widely spaced carts snaked across the marshes, winding their way around the boggy bits, seeking a safe crossing. Covered wagons, open wagons, men on horseback, men on foot, spare horses, packhorses, soldiers, it just went on and on. Of course, this wasn’t just the Crown Jewels. This must be all his household goods: wardrobe, supplies, equipment – almost everything he owned.

  We stared, open-mouthed at such madness. Gold is not light. Treasure is heavy. How on earth could John have expected this lot to cross these salt marshes safely? Every turn of the wheel must cause the wagons to sink more deeply into the mixture of soft sand, soil, and water. It was folly. Massive, massive folly.

  The next thing to be ascertained – was John with them? Or had he ridden on to Swineshead, to treat his dysentery with peaches and new cider? Note to dysentery sufferers: don’t do that. It doesn’t work. Go to the chemist instead. Or better still, the nearest hospital. Best of all – don’t catch it in the first place. According to Clerk, who’s had it once, and Bashford who’s had it twice – dysentery is a bitch.

  ‘I reckon it’s all of a mile long,’ said Markham, dragging me back from thoughts of bloody stools. ‘What was he thinking? I mean, I know he was a bit of a bastard, but seriously, what was he thinking?’

  ‘He’s desperate,’ said Peterson, peering through his binoculars. ‘He’s lost England’s continental empire. The French are occupying a large part of south-east England. The Welsh are revolting. The Scots are marching down from the north. He needs to pay his army. What would you do?’

  All the time that we were talking, the wind had been rising. We weren’t dressed as contemporaries, having reckoned that swanning into Wardrobe and asking to be kitted out in 13th-century gear would have been a bit of a giveaway. So Peterson and Markham wore their usual jumpsuits with body warmers, and I was in jeans, sweatshirt and body warmer – all in extra-large. Possibly we could have looked more professional. The wind whipped at my hair. I rammed in my hairpins and trusted to luck.

  ‘Can we get any closer?’ said Markham. He surveyed the scene. ‘Should we get any closer?’

  Another good question. I looked down. Black water swirled around my ankles. I could feel pressure building in my head. There were no friendly gleams of light in the sky now.

  ‘They’ve stopped,’ said Markham, referring to the train. ‘They’re not going to attempt the crossing.

  I didn’t blame them. I didn’t blame them in the slightest. Except that I suspected they had no choice but to continue. Presumably they had guides who could take them along safe paths, but surely there was no safe way they could turn this little lot around. Their choice was to stand still and withstand the worst of the storm or push on with as much speed as they could muster, cross at the point indicated by their guides and head for safety.

  They chose to push on. If it was any consolation, there was no correct choice that day. Whether they stayed put or attempted the crossing, this baggage train was doomed.

  Which, of course, was why we were here.

  ‘We don’t get involved in this at all,’ I said, zipping my body warmer all the way up to my chin. Unfamiliar words to an historian. ‘We wait here, see what happens, and then seize any opportunities that might come our way. All right?’

  They nodded. We crouched in the wet and waited.

  But not for long.

  The storm came on quickly, blowing in from the sea. The sound of crashing breakers was much louder now. The sky darkened further. I saw flashes of lightning in the clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  I heard Dottle’s voice in my ear. ‘Are you all right out there?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Peterson untruthfully. ‘We’re fine,’ and as he spoke, the rain started. Big heavy raindrops, driven nearly horizontal by the wind. We huddled together and waited.

  Unbelievably, the baggage train picked up the pace. Soldiers ranged up and down the column, shouting at the drivers to pick up speed. Disjointed words floated towards us on the wind and were as quickly whipped away again. Mules and horses were becoming nervous. I could hear drivers shouting and whips cracking. Gaps began to open up as some wagons moved faster than others. Some drivers attempted to manoeuvre around the slower-moving vehicles, steering off the path, which upset the guides. We could hear shouts of warning and curses. Horses reared in their harnesses and then the inevitable happened. A wagon tipped over, dragging the horses with it. The driver jumped down. The two soldiers with him began to cut the horses free. They kicked their way to their feet, rearing and plunging. Other horses became fretful. The shouting increased.

  ‘Here we go,’ said Peterson softly. ‘Eyes on the prize, people.’

  Panic was spreading throughout the train. Drivers jumped down and ran to their horses’ heads. Still the rain hammered down and the wind blew solidly. Canvases flapped, spooking the horses even more. Lightning forked across the sky and thunder boomed overhead, making me jump.

  I heard Peterson say, ‘You all right in there, Lisa?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was surprisingly firm. ‘You?’

  ‘We might need a towel when we get back, but we’re all fine here.’

  I was too fat to crouch for long, but I knelt, wiping the water from my eyes with my sleeve, desperately trying to make out what was going on. The leading wagons were now only a hundred yards or so away and I could barely see them. I was pretty sure no one could see the lop-sided hut half in and half out of a bog and the three idiots crouching in the mud. We were safe. From discovery anyway. Sadly, the weather is an equal-opportunity bastard.

  ‘Listen,’ said Markham suddenly. ‘That’s not thunder.’

  We stood up, braced ourselves against the wind, and looked around.

  A long, low, continuous rumble filled the air. Beneath my feet, the ground quivered. Surely not an earthquake? I looked down. The water was visibly higher. Our little reedy island was slowly disappearing.

  ‘Back to the pod,’ shouted Markham, grasping my arm.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Storm surge. Move.’

  ‘But the wagons …’

  He put it in terms an historian could understand. ‘Something’s coming and it will kill us all. Move.’

  We didn’t have to fight our way back. The wind was behind us and we nearly flew back to the pod. Dottle, still unfamiliar with the controls, didn’t have the door open ready.

  I shouted, ‘Door,’ and we crashed inside.

  She was holding a towel, which she shyly offered to Peterson. He thanked her politely and refused to catch anyone’s eye.

  I scrambled into the seat, wiped the water from my eyes, angled the cameras, and tried to see what was going on.

  And that was when we realised how badly we’d got things wrong. And why there was never going to be the slightest chance of us ‘rescuing’ the Crown Jewels and reinstating the good name of St Mary’s. And just how much trouble we were in. Because, like the hundreds of men and horses out there, we were about to be overtaken by the weather.

  Things were much quieter here inside the pod. Rain hammered on the roof, we could still hear the shrieking wind, and occasionally our pod would tremble, but out there was a nightmare from hell.

  All semblance of order had gone from the baggage train. Horses were rearing and plunging. Mounted soldiers were abandoning their duty and striking off across country, their horses splashing through pools of muddy water as fast as they could go. Much good it would do them. Some drivers tried to turn their wag
ons and now it was just chaos. Drivers in the leading wagons whipped up their horses and made for the ford, trusting to luck to cross the estuary in time although how they could see through the wind and rain was a mystery.

  There was no chance for anyone. There was no chance – as we belatedly realised – for us, either.

  I could see something dark on the horizon, growing larger every second. I peered through the grey sheet of rain. A wave of dirty water was roaring across the fenland. Not fast and not high – I’ve seen bigger bores on the Severn – but completely unstoppable, sweeping up everything in its path. Black, muddy, foaming water. I saw a dead dog turning over and over in it.

  Terrified horses screamed and tried to bolt. Men jumped from the tangled wagons and ran as fast as they could, splashing through the mud, falling over unseen obstacles, desperately trying to outrun the oncoming water. No one – nothing – stood any chance at all. It was coming.

  And then it was here.

  The wave hit with tremendous force. I saw one wagon upended, wood splintering in all directions. The horse, still trapped between the traces, cartwheeled high through the air, legs flailing, screaming with terror. It hit the ground with an appalling smash that must surely have broken its back. I caught a final glimpse of its head, straining above the water, of rolling, terrified eyes and then it was gone. All around us, wagons tumbled over and over, colliding, breaking up, and shedding their loads. Caskets and trunks burst open, spilling their contents. Everything was being swept away in the torrent.

  There was no possible way we could salvage any of this. Men, wagons, horses, gold, silver, crowns, altarpieces, precious jewels, none of it would ever be seen again. Everything would be scattered across miles and miles of empty countryside, to be buried or swept away. All of it lost forever.

  I had thought we could just wait until the storm had subsided and help ourselves to whatever was still lying around, but there was no chance. From the crowns of the Holy Roman Emperor to the smallest gold coin, by this time tomorrow, it would be buried under feet of mud and debris. In our time, it must be fifty feet down and scattered over miles and miles and miles of Fenland.

  We’d gambled and lost.

  There was no time for despair. We were next. I had visions of us being washed all the way across country to Birmingham.

  ‘Brace yourselves,’ I shouted, sliding out of my seat. Peterson pulled Dottle to the floor and we all hung on to the seat column. Down here, the carpet smelled strongly of mud and stagnant water. Things hit us. Hard. Wagons. Carts. Dead horses. I could still hear the occasional scream as men were washed past. Something thudded into the side of us and the pod moved slightly, came to rest, and then moved again. I suspected pods had all the buoyancy of a stone monolith, so this wasn’t good at all. We came to rest somewhere else, lurched violently and then we were on the move again.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Markham, twisting to look up at the screen. ‘It’s like bloody Noah’s ark. This is a bit of a bugger, Max. We should get out of here.’

  Normally, I would argue, but what was the point of staying? We would be wasting our time here. The sea was pouring across the land. There would be nothing left. Nothing to show what had happened here. He was right. I pressed my cheek into the carpet and thought seriously about spending the rest of my life in this position. We’d had just this one chance and we’d got it wrong. It seemed so clear now. If there had been the slightest chance of salvaging any of the treasure, then it would have been done at the time. The fact that nothing – not even a wagon wheel – was ever discovered should have been a bit of a clue. I’d really lost the plot with this one.

  I heard Dr Bairstow’s voice again. ‘One day Max, you will go too far.’ I’d accepted the blame when we’d stolen Arthur’s sword but, internally, I’d been sure I’d done the right thing. Now I had to accept it. I was the one who had talked them into this. I was the one who had stolen a pod and set off on yet another illegal jump. Do I never learn? Success might – just might – have rendered our actions slightly acceptable, but to break the rules and fail … And to fail so spectacularly as well … There was no coming back from this one. I was finished. We all were. I tried to burrow my face into the rough carpet. It’s supposed to be indestructible. The carpet I mean. Maybe some of it would rub off on me. I felt a hot tear trickle down my cheek and soak into the harsh pile.

  Peterson heaved himself up and sat at the console. ‘Hang on. I’ve had a brilliant idea.’

  ‘Whatever it is, you’d better make it quick,’ said Markham, as we collided with something else. The pod jolted and tilted.

  Peterson was banging keys and pulling up data.

  I wiped my face and struggled to my feet. ‘What can I do?’

  He pushed me into the seat. ‘Help me with these coordinates.’ We lurched again and began to tip. ‘Quick.’

  I bent to my task as we were washed across East Anglia. Dottle and Markham stayed quiet and let us get on with it.

  ‘No time to check them,’ said Peterson. ‘Just get them in.’

  I banged in the coordinates. ‘Done.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  I said, ‘Computer, initiate jump.’

  ‘Jump initiated.’

  The world went white.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I’m embarrassed to admit I’d completely forgotten about Miss Dottle, and when I heard the faint moan, for a moment I wondered who it could possibly be.

  Markham helped her up.

  ‘No, no I’m fine. I think I might have sprained my wrist, but it’s not serious.’

  Peterson gave her the seat. She blushed again and Markham grinned at me.

  ‘Tim, where are we?’

  He grinned, mischief dancing across his face. At that moment, he looked like a wet and muddy ten-year-old.

  ‘Can’t you guess?’

  ‘No,’ I said through gritted teeth, because I was well down the road to self-recrimination and despondency and slightly miffed that no one else was coming with me.

  ‘We’re in Bishop’s Lynn,’ he said cheerfully, shutting things down.

  ‘And this is good because …?’

  ‘Because it’s yesterday.’

  I stared at him for a moment and then woke up. ‘The baggage train is still here. In Lynn.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They haven’t set off yet.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The storm hasn’t happened yet.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re going to try and steal something before they set off?’

  ‘Yes.’ He glanced at the read-outs. The baggage train will set off in a few hours to make the low tide and we have twelve hours before we turn up at the Wellstream on our original jump. Should be more than enough time. Let’s have a look at what we have to work with, shall we?’

  Suddenly, I wasn’t soaking wet, freezing cold and full of self-pity. Well, I was, but I had other things to think about now. More important things.

  ‘Where are we?’

  He angled the cameras. ‘Some sort of courtyard.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Let’s think about this and make sure we get it right this time. Do we look for John or the baggage train?’

  ‘The baggage train will be easier to find,’ said Markham. ‘You can’t hide that number of wagons and horses.’

  ‘But,’ said Dottle, and stopped.

  ‘But what?’ said Peterson.

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, go on.’

  ‘Well,’ she said nervously, bright red again. ‘If I was the King, I wouldn’t want to be separated from my treasure. Would you?’

  We thought about it.

  ‘Good point,’ said Markham. ‘Certainly not the most valuable pieces. So where would a king stay?’

  ‘The biggest and best inn in the place.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘He might be inflicting himself upon the Bishop, out at his manor at Gaywood.’

  ‘Or, he might be at St Margaret’s Prio
ry, attached to the church.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Markham thoughtfully. ‘When Henry IV travelled, he always preferred to stay in religious establishments. He reckoned the standard of hospitality was much higher than your average inn.’

  Peterson stared at him. ‘How do you know these things?’

  ‘I keep telling you, I knock around with historians. Things rub off.’

  ‘More like flake off in your case,’ said Peterson.

  We stared at Markham suspiciously and then thought about things some more.

  ‘No,’ said Peterson, eventually. ‘If he’s fleeing the French prince, then he’s going to want the safety of town walls around him, isn’t he? I would.’

  True.

  I roused myself. ‘We need to have a look around. It’s a big town for the day, but not that big. We’ll find them soon enough.’ I looked around. ‘Miss Dottle, I’m putting you in charge of the getaway again. We may have to leave in a hurry, so be ready.’

  ‘Why, what’s going to happen?’

  ‘No idea,’ said Markham cheerfully, ‘but something will.’

  We slipped out into a warm wet night. Even if I hadn’t known there was a massive storm on the way, I would have known there was a massive storm on the way, if you know what I mean. The air was close and oppressive. The pressure began to give me a headache. People often talk of the calm before the storm. This is how it feels.

  Thinking about it, there can’t be many people in this world who have been walking around in clothes soaked in a rainstorm twelve hours before it actually happens. I couldn’t help wondering uneasily if we weren’t causing some kind of temporal conundrum here. If the Time Police turned up, we’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do. I tried to think of a rule we hadn’t broken recently, and failed. No I didn’t. No running in the corridors. I hadn’t been able to run anywhere for some weeks now. So that was all right then. I’d hold off the Time Police with my immaculate corridor-traversing technique.

  We groped our way along the wall. There were no torches anywhere and of course, we had no night vision. I could only hope my eyes became accustomed to the dark because right now, everything was just black on black.