Arriving at the librarian’s desk, I switched on her new PC. The disk whirled and the colour screen flickered to life. No green screen, like on my Tupolev PC; this was much better—real state-of-the-art stuff. I’d noticed the previous term that whilst we pupils might spend ages collecting and searching through microfiche, the librarian could search these same records in seconds. All the microfiche had been scanned in, and this computer used text recognition to find the information. It booted up, and I opened the library program and brought up the list of new titles. I searched for physics, space, computer. A few papers came up, but nothing of interest. Then suddenly, I had a brainwave. Instead of searching for the normal scientific stuff I enjoyed, I could use this opportunity to look for something that would tell me more about my other lives. Nervously, I typed in Prince Richard, but nothing at all came up. I tried King Henry. Works by Shakespeare appeared. Lots about the Tudors and Henry VIII. That was too late. Nothing about my Henry. What about Charlie? He was never likely to have become famous, but what about Swanshurst Farm? No, nothing.
Then I thought of the Mad Hatter and wondered how much of what he had told me was true. I typed in bouncing bomb and got several hits. Perhaps he wasn’t as mad as I’d thought. I whittled my search down to two books that looked the most useful and noted where they were on the shelves. I was about to go and get them when I had one final idea—what about Richard’s parents? Slowly, so as not to misspell it, I typed in Eleanor of Aquitaine. Bingo: a biography of hers! Shivers ran down my spine as I realised that I could find out if I had died in that vineyard. I could find out what happened to my mother and what my brother Henry was like as a king. Locating the books, I carefully checked them out in my name, making sure to change the date to the last day of the previous term.
I could feel my legs shaking with nerves as I climbed back out through the toilet window and made my way to the flat roof, hauling myself up to it using the drainpipe and a window ledge, then up again through my window and into the sanctuary of my little cubicle. All fingers and thumbs, I climbed under the bedcovers without bothering to get undressed and switched on my torch. Hungrily, I skimmed through each of my books.
I put the book on Eleanor to one side, forcing myself to focus for the moment on the bouncing bomb books, as that was more relevant to me right now. I could concentrate on finding out more about my Richard life later, when I had calmed down.
I had a book on the ‘Dambusters’, which recounted the tale of a doomed squadron of bombers who dropped these devices only to be blown up by them. It seemed the British were so desperate that these pilots flew the missions anyway. I tried to imagine what it must have been like—knowing that you were undertaking a mission that would probably kill you. How much had the Mad Hatter known about it? Had he known any of those men? The other book was a biography of the bomb’s inventor, one Barnes Wallis. It seemed odd to write a book about someone who invented a doomed device. Stranger still, it was written in Spanish. That wasn’t a problem, I could read Spanish quite well, but as I flicked through it, I couldn’t concentrate. All I could think of was finding out what happened to Richard.
Stuffing the books in my bedside cupboard, I opened the biography of Eleanor. It was a big volume, and the text was dense. Turning to the index at the back, I scanned through for references to Richard. Nothing! I couldn’t understand it—it was as though he had never existed. Surely there would have been a mention of him, even if he had died in childhood? In consternation, I looked up Henry. There was plenty about him. It turned out he died protecting my mother, before he ever ruled. My heart constricted and for a moment I had to stop, trying to take in what I had read.
The book said it was my tiny brother John who had succeeded my father and had claimed the throne at an early age. After what he’d done to Yvette, I was in fact glad that Henry didn’t become king. My baby brother reigned over such a period of prolonged peace, and was considered so fair, that he was called ‘John the Just’. I made a note to pay him far more attention, should I ever return to health in that life.
I lay back on my bed and tried to calm myself. Pulling the covers up under my chin, I stared up at the dark ceiling above and listened to the regular breathing of the sleeping girls around me. Never had I felt so sick or frightened in my Vicky life. Bouncing bombs might be real and the Mad Hatter not so mad, but perhaps I was the mad one, living events that were yesterday as if they were tomorrow.
New Pond, 1911
‘Come on, roll over, there’s a good lad,’ came a voice from some faraway place.
Where was I? I flinched as someone touched my wound.
‘It’s rather infected. Can you tell me how you did it, Charlie? It might help with how I treat it.’
‘I was stabbed, when I was Richard,’ I whispered.
‘Who’s Richard? Did he do this to you?’
‘Did the potion work?’ The words fell ungoverned from my lips.
‘The boy’s delirious,’ said the doctor to someone else in the room. ‘I’ll clean the wound thoroughly and wrap it in some bandages soaked in a carbolic solution. You’ll have to keep an eye on him for a while.’
Slowly, reality crept in. I heard him rummage around in his bag and prepare something.
‘Charlie, this is going to hurt I’m afraid, but I need to clean your wound. Bite down on this.’
He shoved a leather belt in my mouth, and the strong taste helped bring me fully back into the present. Obediently, I bit down. Pain sliced through me as though I’d been stabbed with a burning poker. Involuntarily, I cried out, and the belt dropped onto the bed. The doctor stuffed it back into my mouth, and dizziness overwhelmed me.
‘Just another minute, and then we’ll be done.’
Prepared now for the pain, I bit down again as hard as I could, tears pricking my eyes.
‘There now, that wasn’t so bad,’ the doctor spoke in a monotone. ‘I’ll just bandage it, and you’ll be back to normal in no time.’ He hummed as he worked, and slowly I started to feel a little better. I wondered what Catherine must be thinking and I was sorry I’d alarmed her so. I could tell that his humming was designed to stop me talking.
‘Thank Catherine for me, Doctor, please,’ I said.
He stopped for a second, taking in my words. ‘Of course, young man. I gather you and she are quite friendly. I’m sure she’s told you about Frederick, has she not? We have high hopes there might be an engagement announced soon.’
No, she hadn’t bloody well told me about Frederick. I grunted in response.
‘There’s been a little unwelcome attention from a couple of your friends, though. Someone called Mac, and another called...’ he paused, as if trying to remember. ‘Evan, that’s it. Young Arthur, the blacksmith’s boy, warned me about him. If you know anything about it, you might mention to these two to stay away, will you? It’s most unpleasant for Catherine having them fawning over her. Most improper. You’ll do that for me, won’t you, young man? Or perhaps your good friend here would.’
I grunted again, unwilling to be drawn into any conversation about this, but now I tried to open my eyes to see who was with me. I watched as he packed up his bag and I pulled myself up. Walter sat at the end of my bed.
‘All done, Charlie,’ said the doctor, finishing up. ‘Bed rest for a few days, I think, and I’ll send the nurse to rebandage your wound in a couple of days. Just be a little more careful, in future.’
‘Where’s my ma?’ I asked.
‘She’s cooking, I believe; plenty of mouths to feed. Lucky your friend here could help.’
Walter got up to see him out. How gracious of him—the friend who only last night blew a soldier’s brains out and most likely turned what could have been a lucky escape into some military investigation!
‘Bloody hell, Charlie. What in God’s name happened to you?’ he said once the doctor had left. He stood with his back to me at my door, eavesdropping on the rumbles of conversation in the hallway below. I noticed how he could not keep still. A nervo
us energy emanated from him as he shifted from foot to foot, taking one hand out of his pocket and pulling his collar away from his neck as though it were choking him. Neither willing nor able to deal with him in this state, I closed my eyes.
‘Can you get out of my room please, Walter? I’m not well.’
‘You see the problem is, Charlie, Arthur said you lost it earlier.’ His voice lowered. ‘Gather you nearly dropped us all in it. Said he had to deck you to stop you spouting off to some copper.’
‘Bugger off, Walter. You know I’d never shop you.’
‘Well, that’s not how it must have looked to Arthur. Just remember, the whole thing was your idea. If anyone’s to blame for what happened last night, it’s you. Anyhow, Arthur said he was sorry.’
I knew that must be a lie. I had never heard Arthur apologise for anything! I heard the front door slam downstairs, and Walter turned his head sharply, staring at me nastily.
‘You really have got a big gob on ya!’
I tensed my stomach muscles and made a fist under my sheets, ready for what might come, but he ran out of my room.
I lay there, thinking. Walter was so anxious about me telling on him, but what had he actually heard from downstairs that had got him to scamper like that? I tried to remember how I’d been in the church. Would I have really told all? No wonder Arthur had turned on me. But then there was Mac and Evan, making a play for Catherine even though they must have known I was sweet on her.
I’d been a fool to take any of them to Swanshurst Farm. I had watched that place from afar for years, knowing it was bad, yet the mystery of it lured me in long before I’d even had the dreams about the skull. My thoughts turned to my wound. I’d woken up with the pain this morning, but how on earth did that wound get there? Had my stab wound somehow transferred from one life to another?
As dusk set in, I dozed intermittently. Each life, when I am in it, feels the most real. Perhaps this time I could just close my eyes for a while and not drift off to my next life?
***
It was sometime later that I opened my eyes and watched as the clouds outside my window seemed to light up, as if from a distant thunderstorm. Although it was raining, no cracks of thunder followed, only the now familiar rumble of the Mayfly’s engines. I managed to sit up, push myself onto unsteady legs, and creep towards the window. Peering out and upwards, I could see the lumbering silver beast heading over the rooftops. Flashes of light emanated from it, darting back and forth. This did feel dreamlike, watching this alien contraption stealing through our village.
Freezing in my thin pyjamas, I made my way back to the cocoon of my bed, but before I could climb in I heard a loud succession of knocks at our front door. They sounded urgent, not the knocks of some friendly neighbour, and they were followed by the sounds of a very officious voice. Anxiety pierced me. Easing myself into bed, I lay there rigidly, the bedclothes up around my neck as though they were armour against whatever was downstairs. My father’s voice rang out, and then there were heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs, making their way up to my room. I swallowed hard. The door opened.
‘Good evening, young man. I’m sorry to bother you in your sick bed, but I need to ask you some questions.’
It was the same policeman I had escaped this morning. I lay there silently while he took a stance at the end of my bed, my father standing grimly next to him, either in solidarity with him in anticipation of hearing about my misdeeds or as a protective barrier. I hoped it was the latter but suspected the former.
‘I just wondered if you noticed anything peculiar about Dr Koestler when he saw to you earlier?’ the policeman enquired.
I was surprised. I had expected him to start interrogating me about last night’s events, or this morning’s, at least. I relaxed, just a little. ‘No.’
‘Did he mention where he was going next? Another patient perhaps?’
‘No, why?’
‘Your father informs me that you’ve got yourself injured; can you tell me how?’
‘I slipped against a bench,’ I lied. ‘The wound needed cleaning and bandaging, that’s all.’
‘Oh, I see. Nothing to do with this morning’s activities then?’
‘What morning’s activities?’ my father interjected.
‘Perhaps you’re not aware, Sir, that I met your son this morning in the church. His behaviour was odd to say the least, but I took it no further, as no harm had been done and his friends promised to look after him.’
‘The infection made me delirious,’ I growled. ‘Ask the doctor. My behaviour this morning must have been a symptom of that.’
My father raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
‘I can’t ask him, I’m afraid,’ continued the policeman. ‘Dr Morris Koestler was found drowned in New Pond a short time ago...’ he paused to note my reaction, ‘...so I’m just checking on his last known whereabouts. Seems you were his final patient.’
The Ride, 1168
Even before I opened my eyes, I smelt wine, wood-smoke and pitch. I was on the floor in the vintner house, dimly lit in orange hues. Blinking, I looked around for my mother. She was sitting beside and talking to an olive-skinned, bearded old man, who was eyeing me suspiciously. Urgently I knelt up on my knees as I vomited a foul black liquid onto the stone floor. To my surprise, the old man knelt beside me and opened a leather pouch. I must have still been delirious as it looked like my dark bile slid itself towards and into his pouch.
‘You see, he shall be on his feet soon and stronger than ever. Go now, bring back another horse and tell the sergeant that no one leaves this building except us, understand?’ The old man bowed his head and inched back, all the while looking at me as if I were some demon, before turning and talking to the sergeant. My mother took my hand.
‘Now come on,’ she said gently. ‘See if you can sit; it will help flush out the potion.’
‘I think it’s all out, did you see...’ I coughed, heaving myself up, putting my hand behind me and expecting bandages, but there were none. ‘I was stabbed, but—’
‘Yes, and now you are healed.’ Glancing left and right, my mother lowered her voice and drew closer. ‘Richard, you must never, ever speak of my potion: these ignorant “Sheep” and “Flies” will view it as some evil sorcery.’
I looked around anxiously, noting that between us and the moss-covered stone walls was a mixture of soldiers and peasant folk. I could see through the tiny slit windows that it was dark outside. Sensing my confusion, she spoke again.
‘You have been asleep two days, my son. Many have had to care for us so that I could remain by your side. Now what occurred here? Do you know where Henry is?’
So I told her all I knew as fast as I could. How knights took Henry and slaughtered Hodierna and the girls. I did not tell her that Henry had killed Yvette, as I still could not believe it myself. Nor did I say that Henry and I were running away, rather claiming that we had escaped to Hodierna’s for lunch. My mother listened intently. She would be so hurt and not react well if she thought we were running away from her.
‘And what of the tutor, Robert—have you seen him?’
‘Well, only this morning, or yesterday morning, I mean. Henry told him where we were going.’
My mother’s demeanour shifted. ‘But he knew that I had left to receive an urgent dispatch at Fontevraud Abbey! I instructed him that under no circumstances were you to leave. I left plenty of guards, did you see who poisoned them?’
‘I only saw sleeping guards—oh!’ I realised abruptly how naive I had been as I crept past them.
She stood and started pacing, her hands flapping downward with that curious motion she had when she was distressed by something, as though she were trying to shake it off. Some of the nearby soldiers edged away. If my mother had ever cried, it had never been in front of me. Moving her fingers over her eyes now was as close as I had ever seen.
‘Why would he let you leave?’ she asked, as though I had the power to enlighten her and cure her anguish.
‘Ask him!’ I answered, still feeling stupid.
‘I can’t. Robert is gone too. So I don’t know if he and Henry have both been taken, or whether that tutor has betrayed us all!’
She continued to pace, shaking her hands, as if trying to rid her body of its rage. I sat in silence, trying to clear my head, but I found myself wondering what had happened to Catherine’s father, Dr Koestler. It dawned on me that perhaps Walter had run off to do some mischief or tell Arthur, who I knew would easily have the strength to hold a grown man under the water-line. I was sure that my friends must somehow have been involved. But would any of them commit murder, to protect us from the consequences of that fire? I recoiled as I remembered the point-blank shot fired by Walter, straight through that soldier’s brain. As much as it repulsed me, the answer to that thought was self-evident.
Persons around us parted to let through someone in a dirty yellow tunic, and behind him the old man from earlier. The one in the tunic went up to my mother and whispered in her ear. Afterwards she sat back beside me and calmly took hold of my hand. She spoke in a low voice.
‘The mortician tells me that the blades used on Hodierna and the girl were Saracen. You said that you could not see their emblem?’
‘I could not, but they were not Saracens.’
‘Many of the knights’ orders that have reign in the holy lands carry Saracen swords as mementos, or even as their weapons of choice. The French, too, could be behind this, as it was their dispatch I rode for at the abbey, so they knew that many of the house guards and I would be gone. And then there is Robert. If he has betrayed us, it would only be from a deeper loyalty to your father than to me.’
My eyes opened wide in astonishment that she would even think this was anything to do with him. ‘But why would my father take my brother?’ I said. ‘He is his own son!’
Paralysis Paradox (Time Travel Through Past Lives Adventure Series Book 1) Page 8
