Two thirds of Team One survived. Just. No-one inside had a chance in hell.
What made it slightly amusing I suppose was that Grainger had, in some ways, fluked it. Anything that had been keyed into the system would have produced the same message: ‘>SEQUENCE INITIATED<’. Dog, House, Password, I love Shetland ponies or even 12345 would all have had exactly the same effect. Grainger just happened, as his final act, to choose something mildly ironic. He chose the word ‘sequence’ and that is exactly what he set in place.
Given that the cabin belonged to Victoria and she was paranoid as hell, she took no chances. Whilst ever she was in the building, a small late-twentieth century light switch made of yellowed plastic which was situated at the side of the computer could be flicked to completely disarm the system. Whilst ever she was out, however, that switch was set to on.
And she was out.
Given that the computer also belonged to Victoria, the only password that would work, quite simply, was ‘dad’.
All lower case.
TWENTY-TWO
Thursday, November 13, 1644.
Valenciennes, Northern France.
In the fields of Saint-Amand-les-Eaux north of Valenciennes, the imposing figure of Gaston, Duc d’ Orléans surveyed the undulating landscape which stretched ahead of him and then looked to the high ground some distance away. The ground on which Leopold and his army were already gathered.
The light was fading and dusk was taking control. Save for the watchmen, it was time to settle his own men for the night. There would be no fighting through the night, even the Spaniards realised that such a course of action would not end well for either party.
Gaston cut an imposing figure and his stance demonstrated that he was more than ready for this. He wore a gold braided tunic, braided red breeches, fine-cut tan boots of soft leather and a steel breastplate which glistened in the fading orange light. Across the plate he wore a sash, also in gold braid and, resting atop that, an eight pointed cross draped on a blue neck-ribbon to symbolise his position of chivalry within L'Ordre des Chevaliers du Saint-Esprit. He looked every inch he warrior weighing the odds and, for now it seemed, they were desperately against him. The scent of sweat, dung and anticipation hung heavy in the air but he was well used to all three. His own anticipation could only be that of victory. His position demanded it.
To his left his deputy, the wiry Louis II de Bourbon, Prince de Condé, surveyed the same scene with him and sighed.
“They’re readying their cavalry,” Gaston said, thinking. “It can not be more that a day or two until we are at it.”
“Have you a plan, Monsieur?” Louis asked, using the traditional honorific title of ‘Monsieur’ in recognition of Gaston’s position as the eldest surviving brother of the King.
Gaston smoothed his thin black anchor beard. “Always,” he said confidently.
He pointed in the distance to a low, forested area to the right of the higher ground occupied by the Spanish. “We have at most 16,000 men,” he explained, “whilst they have twenty or more. So, I propose that we send a battalion of around 5,000 below the escarpment there and through the forest to the east. Their orders will be to flank them.”
Louis narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “They will not make it. The Spaniards will have them from above before they are halfway through.”
“Of course they will not make it,” Gaston explained. “That is their order, not their objective. What they will do, however, is draw enough of the Spaniards from the high ground for us to attack the remainder head on. Their numbers are stronger but our cavalry are far better trained. If we can thin their number on the hilltop then we shall taste victory. I guarantee it.”
“So the 5,000…” Louis asked. “They are but a sacrifice?”
Gaston took a moment to raise his cross to his lips, kissing it gently in respect, then turned away from the scene and flicked his eyes. “They are a process of intelligent warfare,” he said. “And, like any soldier of war, their deaths will win us this battle.”
The two men wandered slowly back to camp, hundreds of rough linen tents all arranged in neat rows with nervous activity flitting in the narrow channels between. Gaston surveyed everything as he walked, stopping to check the sharpness of a freshly-ground blade at the smith or the healing wounds of a horse. Not one aspect of his command escaped his attention.
“And who is to command such a unit?” Louis asked, tentatively.
“You put yourself forward?” Gaston asked with a smile.
“I would lead them at your command.”
Gaston smiled. “And that is why you and I shall win this battle, brother. For we have loyalty and respect.” He gestured around the busy camp; men hammering, sewing, eating and preparing for the days ahead. “These men would all be the lesser if you or I were to perish. No, what we require is a man who does not respect the abilities of those above him and whose own attempts at leadership will not be missed. Better yet, a man whose desire for escalation within the ranks will blind him to the futility of the task he is set.”
Louis smiled softly. “Hercule?”
“Hercule,” Gaston agreed. He raised his eyes. “Tell me, where is your bastard cousin to be found?”
The twenty-three year old Louis had been born in Paris in 1621, son of Henri de Bourbon, Prince de Condé and Charlotte Marguerite de Montmorency. Bourbon was a first cousin-once-removed of Henry IV, Gaston’s own father, and his mother was not only an heiress of one of France's leading ducal families but also brother of Henri II de Montmorency, Hercule’s father. Henri’s downfall had effectively ended any and all of Hercule’s social aspirations, leaving Louis and his progeny to continue the familial line.
“We received word three days ago that three men had ridden into Chalons and were taking camp nearby,” Louis explained. “One was dressed in finery and two were guards of your father. They do not arrive here yet. I fear my cousin might have looked too hard and found only yellow in his belly.”
Gaston sneered; his opinion of Hercule evident. He turned to face Louis and spoke firmly. “Take two trusted men and the fastest horses you can rally,” he said. “Ride hard to Chalons and bring Hercule to me. Drag him with those same horses if the need arises. His line needs and end and soon but it should do so with purpose. If he is to die a coward, then so be it, but he can do it on my field.”
Louis nodded. The ride, approximately 115 miles over well-ridden tracks, would take around nine hours at a canter. Either they would pass the missing men on their route, which was unlikely given the hour or, more likely, find them at Chalons and wake them from their slumber. He smiled to himself and it was clear that he shared the opinions of his superior. Henri had been an idiot who had nearly thrown the entire de Montmorency line into full disrepute, and his son was little more than an ineffectual and socially embarrassing oaf whose ambitions far outweighed his skills. He would enjoy dragging Hercule from his bed in the middle of the night and dragging him to a hell in which he and his spur would face a horrific end.
He bowed respectfully and turned away.
“And Louis..?” Gaston added. Louis turned back. “Ensure he has his saddlebags with him. We need his funds.”
“Yes, Monsieur,” Louis said with a knowing smile.
And he was gone.
TWENTY-THREE
Sunday, August 23, 2043.
Manningtree, Essex, England.
I had been on English soil for less than twenty-four hours when my heart stopped.
Having arrived, we had taken a mono as far as a place called Colchester and then moved to a standard train, the kind that ran on steel tracks, for the rest of the journey. Arriving in the riverside village of Manningtree, which still looked surprisingly like ‘a village’, Victoria had used her new identity of ‘Alice Sheldon’ and the funds this woman already possessed in an online bitcount to book us into an inn in the village itself. It was an alias she had apparently used before.
The inn was based on an old ‘Ale House’ and had
chosen to use that as its main theme during its latest round of refurbishment. Varnished-looking beams which were probably scumbled steel struts held up a low ceiling and everything had been finished in such a way that the inn probably looked quite a few centuries older than it had prior to work being complete. The rooms we booked into were small, as low ceilinged as the downstairs bar and the bed much smaller than I had been used to. It was one of many reasons I hadn’t slept particularly well.
Victoria had arranged for us to meet Arthur Barnes, curator and custodian of antiquities at The Trials Museum in Manningtree itself. It was the diminutive Barnes, apparently, who had first discovered the well, hidden by weeds and nettles on one of his many walks around the parish. Unable to get government funding for a full excavation, he had written both to the owner of the land and to the TV show in the hope that they would come and investigate. Both requests had been answered and so Barnes himself had been present and offering advice throughout the full three days the team had been allocated to complete their dig. He had even appeared on camera, albeit for very briefly. Victoria had spoken with Barnes a number of times by telephone, apparently, claiming to be an aficionado of English Civil War history and, despite it being a Sunday, he had kindly allowed ‘Alice’ and I a private midday viewing given that we would be ‘flying all this way’. All we had to do was meet him at the museum itself, an old tudor building of white render and dark external beams knitted between an antiquarian bookstore and a shop that sold a range of items ’each under a pound’.
Given that, on the train up here, I had discovered that a cup of rather disgusting coffee changed hands in this place for ‘twelve pounds and fifty pence’ I am going to stick my neck out and say that each of the items on sale, no doubt made somewhere in the New Zhōng Federation (NZF), were of somewhat dubious quality.
Barnes, a small balding man of around 5’3” in his late sixties, was waiting with a wide smile by the still-locked doors to the museum when we arrived. He had a pleasant and genial demeanour.
“Alice,” he said. “Lovely to finally meet you.” He wore a bright-eyed, genuinely welcoming smile and seemed to be very charming.
What happened next surprised me.
“And you, Mr. Barnes,” she said - in a near-perfect English accent with drawn out emphasis ladled onto key words. “Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with us.”
“Not at all, not at all,” he said, excitedly. “And please… call me Arthur. Is it good to find yourself back on home soil?”
It was only then that I realised that, presumably some time ago (given that she had used this identity previously), Victoria had been offered a number of possible alternative identities. Thinking it would make travel to England easier if she chose an English identity, that’s precisely what she had done. Now, in crisp clear tones, she was actually managing to back it up. I was starting to wonder if she was really as mad as she seemed. Or perhaps even more so?
Victoria smiled a warm smile. “It always is, Arthur. It always is. Anything more than a day away is a day too long, yes?” She turned to introduce me. “And this is my son, James,” I nearly choked. “I do hope you will forgive him but I am afraid he does seem to have developed a somewhat Colonial accent.” She flicked her eyes wide.
Arthur took my hand and shook it, welcoming and firm. “Never mind, old boy. I know that chips are fries and crisps are chips. Beyond that I am sure your mother will handle any necessary translations.” He winked.
“Shall we…?” Victoria said. She nodded toward the door.
Arthur pursed his lips and nodded firmly. “Let’s…” He unlocked the low wooden door with a huge set of keys and, in true gentlemanly fashion, gestured courteously for ‘Alice Sheldon’ to enter before him.
Inside was dark. Coming from the high technology world I inhabited daily, it added an air of history without even trying. In the gloom, however, I could already see that the place was a positive trove of trinkets, books, mannequins in period costume and, of course, gifts. Postcards, digicards, mini-holograms and the ubiquitous stylus toppers. There was twice as much stuff crammed into the room as would reasonably fit and then a little more. At the back of this room was a low glass cabinet with some of the area’s most important finds, about ten or twelve in all, each laid on a series of glass shelves. Arthur led us toward it.
“I believe this is what you were so keen to see..?”
He stepped aside, we stepped forward, and there it was. Sitting on the top shelf, propped at about forty-five degrees and almost perfectly at eye level. The cross. The rosary was broken but an intact section and as many beads as had been recovered were laid at the side. And yes, my heart stopped. Because I bought those beads. A long time ago to me but, by the standards of the dig, very recently.
This was my cross, of that I was sure. My handiwork for my Rachael, created as a reciprocal gift after she had created my eternity bracelet. Of course, it was a complete mess but that, for obvious reasons, had suddenly become the most frightening thing. This was not a crucifix that was a matter of months old, but rather one that had suffered the ravages of being buried in a damp well, soil piling upon it year after year, for some decades. Centuries even. The wood was bloated in places, flaky in others and very much darker than the necklace I created. It was stained and ruined, but the major features were still there including, but not limited to, the shard missing from the face where my blunt saw had failed in its one given task of offering a clean cut. The missing piece was exactly the same size and position as my little faux pas and the cross as a whole matched the one I had made in every conceivable dimension.
The only difference - and it was a big difference - was the engraving on the face. The rough-hewn and clearly hand carved engraving that Victoria and I could now read with some clarity. The letters has succumbed to the ravages of time almost as much as the cross itself, but they had somehow managed to retain a darker hue; a patina that had seemed to fend off the effects of ageing. It was as though they had been protected in some way.
What I read now looked suspiciously like Latin:
MEDIUS CRUX EXCUCIO RELEVO
“What does the inscription say?” I asked. A picture was starting to form in my head and, whilst in some ways it was exciting, it also contained some of the most frightening thoughts I had ever had. But I needed more information. A lot more. I was basing nothing solely on the fact that my heart and mind had very suddenly got themselves into a bit of a race.
Arthur smiled. “It’s Latin” he explained. “In the centre of the cross is relief, or perhaps I am relieved. An admittance no doubt that the wearer believed Jesus Christ to be the healer of all ailments. It’s a standard kind of statement; very typical of the time.”
I had definitely crafted - OK, I had definitely ‘carved from a hunk of aged wood as best I could’ - this cross, just a few painfully short months ago, sans inscription. I had never been more certain of anything. And yet it had been buried in a well in a field in England for a very long time. For at least…
“How old is it?” I asked. “I mean, how old exactly?”
Arthur took a deep breath. It was one of those ‘plumber about to offer a very vague quotation’ breaths. “Such things are much harder to determine than one might imagine,” he said. “Dating of the bodies found in the well seems to have covered quite a period. The well was clearly used as a burial site for some considerable length of time. Generations. Best guesses for all bodies in the well are anywhere from around 1520 to as late as 1700.”
“That’s one hundred and eighty years,” I said, stating the obvious without really thinking it through. My heart sank.
“Indeed,” he said. “But it really is very difficult to be any more accurate than that. The body deemed to perhaps have been holding this cross, that of a female, was slightly mummified in clay and showed signs of tuberculosis. We can’t be one hundred percent accurate but it was dated somewhere within the early to mid-1600s. As for the cross itself, we fear the wood may have been contami
nated by an underground stream or rainfall that had found a route back into the well. Clearly it is extremely old indeed, but yet there are traces of quite modern chemicals embedded within its fabric; the kind that would normally get embedded during growth from impurities in the surrounding air were it growing today. As such, dating of the wood itself has proved almost impossible with any accuracy and so we cannot be sure precisely when either the cross or its owner were placed in that well. Sorry.”
I leaned forward and took a closer look. I looked at the letters, roughly carved, and then I looked around the letters, checking every inch of the cross in more detail. In amongst, I saw something which, had my heart managed to start again yet, would have stopped it dead for a second time.
“1645,” I said, almost under my breath. Both Victoria and Arthur turned and looked at me like I had gone mad. I knew that look. Thanks to Victoria, that look and I were becoming increasingly good friends of late.
“How on earth could you possibly know that?” Arthur asked.
I took a deep breath. Too much to explain right now, and certainly not in front of Arthur. “Just a guess,” I said. I shrugged. “Hey, what do I know?”
What I knew was that that cross had been placed in that well in 1645. Not 1644 or even 1646, but in 1645.
Arthur smiled as one might smile to a child who persistently got an answer wrong. It was, if anything, consolatory. “Well, it is quite an oddity, that is for certain” he explained, guide-style. “Plenty of supposition but no hard facts as yet. We have a dig coming up in the new year in a field over near Thorpe which might shed more light, one never knows. Obviously, most of our finds are related to Hopkins and so we tend to focus primarily on those, but this one was such a gem that we just had to give it pride of place. It really is quite extraordinary.”
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