by Jodi Taylor
I’m sorry – I don’t know why I’m laughing.
‘Right you lot,’ I said. ‘Greenwich Palace, 24th January, 1536.’
A stir of anticipation ran around the room.
We were in my office, settling down with the tea and biscuits that would have been provided by my assistant Miss Lee, if she had even the faintest idea of what her job entailed.
‘The rule of three again,’ I said. ‘Three pods with three people in each. Dr Peterson, Mr Markham and me in Number Eight. Mr Clerk, Mr Evans and Miss North in Number Five, and Mr Bashford, Mr Cox and Miss Sykes in Number Six.’
Bashford stirred. I was taking a bit of a risk sending him and Sykes out together. Their already bizarrely informal relationship had been strained past breaking point by the discovery that Bashford had been unfaithful to her. After a spectacular pub crawl one evening, Bashford had somehow become separated from the pack and found himself on the wrong end of a large group of inebriated young men. Fortunately, Angus had turned up. The two of them had fought together and bonded. Angus was now BBF – Bashford’s Best Friend – and slept every night on his wardrobe, both of them oblivious to Sykes’ loudly uttered complaints.
In the same way we have asymmetric warfare, Bashford and Sykes could be described as an asymmetric couple. Basically, he hadn’t got a clue what was going on, although, as Markham had said, since he was usually unconscious for at least half the day, it didn’t matter much anyway.
Sykes now threw Bashford a look that, had he noticed, would have curled his toenails. Being Bashford, however, he was entirely unaware of his peril. I could only admire his unconcern. She wasn’t known as Psycho Psykes for nothing. I resolved to keep an eye on them and, if things got sticky, I’d swap North for Sykes to keep her and Bashford apart. I sighed. Life never used to be this difficult. On the other hand, I did have a certain amount of sympathy for her. It can’t be easy, sharing your man with a chicken.
Atherton and Prentiss would stay behind on this one. Just in case. We’d discovered the hard way that it’s really not a good idea to send all your people off on the same assignment because then you don’t have a rescue team. If – when – this one went tits up, the two of them, together with as many of the Security Section as we could herd into one pod, would be our back-up and our rescue.
So, I had historians down one side of the table, bashing away at their scratchpads, the Security Section down the other, pretending to look cool and fooling no one, with Miss Dottle at the foot and – no surprise there – as close to Peterson as she could get.
Her former boss, the idiot Halcombe, was still on leprosy leave, being treated for an illness we all knew he didn’t have, leaving his less than faithful lieutenant to hitch her wagon to the St Mary’s star. She’d enthusiastically participated in several jumps – at least two of which had been unauthorised – and had settled down at St Mary’s as Thirsk’s representative on earth. She could frequently be seen scurrying around with armfuls of files looking busy and important and happy.
Gone was the mousey, dumpy Dottle with the slightly protruding front teeth, the badly styled hair and the droopy cardigans. This Dottle had cut and coloured her hair and wore make-up. She no longer spent her evenings alone in the bar reading romantic fiction about voluptuous young women barely able to keep their clothes on in a crisis, but could frequently be found with the younger historians and techies, clutching a spritzer, flushed with excitement and wine and thoroughly enjoying herself. I often wondered what would happen if – or more probably when – her boss, the idiot Halcombe, came back.
She still had a bit of a thing for Peterson – understandably, he said. He was only surprised that it didn’t happen more often. Since her passion for him was in much better taste than her passion for the unspeakable Halcombe, people let it go and just grinned when she blushed furiously every time he spoke to her. Or walked past her. Or was even in the same room as her.
As to his feelings for her – I had no clue until the day Markham, Peterson and I had bumped into her on our way out of the dining room. Markham was carrying the tea, I had the chocolate, and Peterson had a plate of chips. I can’t remember what we were doing that afternoon but it was obviously something requiring a great deal of strenuous mental effort.
She bumped straight into Peterson.
Markham and I exchanged knowing glances.
‘Oh, I’m sorry – are you all right?’ she said, covered in confusion.
‘Yes,’ he said faintly, ‘but I think you might have crushed my chips.’
It was just a joke – something any of us might have said – but she shot him a look from the corner of her eye, said mischievously, ‘Oh, is that’s what they’re calling them these days?’ then looked horrified, blushed scarlet and shot off in some disarray.
Peterson watched her go.
Markham and I looked at each other.
‘Shut up,’ said Peterson, not even looking round.
We said nothing.
‘I mean it,’ he said.
We said nothing.
He sighed in exasperation. ‘You two are so childish, you know …’
We said nothing.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ And he stamped off in the direction lately taken by Miss Dottle.
‘She’s well and truly crushed his chips, hasn’t she?’ said Markham, and we continued with our afternoon.
Anyway, back to the briefing.
‘Something interesting to celebrate our return to normal working,’ I said, bringing up a few images. ‘The infamous jousting tournament at Greenwich Palace. The one possibly held to celebrate – if that’s the word I want – the death of Henry’s first queen, Katherine of Aragon. Things are going quite well for Henry – the inconvenient wife has died, his current wife, that’s Anne Boleyn, is pregnant and this could be his longed-for heir. However, as we know, the king comes a massive cropper and, for him, nothing is ever quite the same afterwards. He incurs a serious head injury which, supposedly, leads to a complete personality change.’
‘Debatable,’ said North. ‘If you’re going on to say he developed tendencies toward extreme paranoia and cruelty, it’s only fair to say he had all those before the accident. Remember, he’s already executed Thomas More and his harshness to Queen Katherine and Princess Mary was well documented long before he fell off his horse.’
‘I don’t agree,’ said Sykes at once. Well, she wouldn’t, would she? The two of them never agreed over anything. ‘All contemporary reports say the king was sporty, fit, popular and generous. He was generally reckoned to epitomise all the kingly virtues. It was only after his accident that he started to develop tyrannical tendencies.’
‘Wrong,’ argued North, and we all sat back to let them get on with it. ‘He certainly didn’t enjoy perfect health. He’s already survived bouts of smallpox and malaria. There’s a possibility he might even have been suffering from syphilis.’
‘There’s no proof of that,’ Sykes said, scornfully. ‘He wasn’t exactly rotting away in front of people, was he?’
‘His leg wouldn’t heal.’
‘It was a varicose ulcer caused by wearing his garters too tightly,’ countered Sykes, the light of battle in her eye. ‘They don’t heal quickly even today.’
‘It wasn’t the first accident he’d suffered. He’d sustained a previous head wound on another occasion when he forgot to lower his visor.’
‘He didn’t lose consciousness on that occasion, though. For this one, he was unconscious for over two hours and when he woke up everyone agreed his personality had changed. He became grasping, covetous and …’
‘He’s a Tudor,’ North said scornfully. ‘He was all that anyway.’
‘Experts agree he definitely exhibited signs of brain damage when he believed those ridiculous stories about Anne Boleyn’s adultery.’
‘Really? Well, she was no better than she should be. Suppose – just suppose for one minute – that the stories are true. Desperate for an heir, Anne has an affair. And who b
etter than her brother?’
‘Keeps it in the family, I suppose,’ said Sykes nastily.
‘Well, he’s never going to betray her, is he? Yes, I know the prevailing view is that she was innocent, but this is the woman who refused to settle for being his mistress, held out for marriage, had no qualms when Henry divorced his wife – whom she had served as lady-in-waiting, by the way – or when he broke with Rome, or when he executed one of his closest friends, and she played a major part in Wolsey’s downfall. All she has to do is produce a male heir and her position is secure forever. Is it too much of a stretch to imagine that with so much at stake, she wouldn’t stoop to a little adultery?’
‘Enough,’ I said, before they climbed over the table and started having a go at each other.
I often wonder if other professions have this difficulty. I mean, do you ever get a geologist shouting, ‘I tell you, it’s oolitic limestone, you idiot.’ And his colleague yelling back, ‘No, it’s not. Surely any imbecile can see it’s an ultramafic, ultrapotassic intrusive rock dominated by mafic phenocrysts in a feldspar groundmass. Are you a complete moron?’
I once mentioned my theory about non-historian debates to the Chancellor of the University of Thirsk and I could hear her laughing all the way down the corridor.
‘Yes,’ said Clerk, leaping into the breach, bless him. ‘Well, it’s a bad year all round. His first wife dies, his second wife miscarries that vital heir, Cromwell finds evidence of adultery, there’s all the scandal of the trial and Henry’s virility is mocked in court, he executes Anne Boleyn, his illegitimate and only son Henry Fitzroy dies, the Pilgrimage of Grace kicks off … it just goes on and on.’
‘Katherine’s death wasn’t a bad thing for Henry,’ objected Sykes.
‘It was for Anne Boleyn,’ said North. ‘She was Anne’s protection. Even Henry VIII couldn’t take a third wife with two still living.’
‘Be that as it may,’ I said, dragging them back on track again. ‘We will, with luck, be able to form an opinion as to his physical state, if not his mental one. I want details of how he’s received by the crowd. Is he still popular? Do the common people love him? We know Anne Boleyn’s not there, which is a shame, but Miss North and Mr Clerk, you’ll be opposite the royal stand and I’d like you to pay particular attention to what happens there. Is Jane Seymour present? Does Henry single her out in any way?’
They nodded, bashing away at their scratchpads.
‘Miss Sykes and Mr Bashford, I’d like you near Henry’s pavilion. We need to know if they take him straight to the palace after the accident, or whether they take him to his tent first. What sort of condition is he in? Will you be able to see if they administer any medical treatment? I expect they’ll try and take off his helmet – not a problem since there weren’t any neck or spinal injuries – so try and get a good look at him then.’
‘Dr Peterson and I will concentrate on the accident itself. We’ll be on the stand side because I’m betting that’s the side Henry will choose – he’s very vain and that’s where people will get their best view of him.
‘Regarding costumes – we’ll be our usual middle-of-the-road selves – too prosperous to kick but not rich enough to rob. Ladies: woollen dresses; linen undergarments. Belts with pouches for anything important. Rules regarding hair are beginning to relax, but cover it anyway, just to be on the safe side. Gentlemen: woollen tunics; knee trousers; stockings and shoes. You know the drill. Report to Mrs Enderby later today, please; she is expecting you. Any questions?’
They shook their heads.
‘In that case, thank you everyone. Report to Hawking at 10:00 Tuesday.’
I assembled my teams outside Number Eight and we checked each other over for forgotten jewellery, inadvertently acquired tattoos, wristwatches etc., because it was some time since we’d done this. I was actually quite nervous. There was a lot riding on today. According to Dr Bairstow, the equivalent of the Third World’s debt had been spent on us and we’d better prove we were worth it.
Looking around, Hawking seemed almost back to normal. Exploding pods had gouged great lumps out of the walls, but that had all been smoothed over. The crater in the floor had been filled in and the permanent roof was on. All the electrics, together with what Dieter had insisted on referring to as ‘the fiddly bits’, had taken considerably longer, though, and we still had only four working pods. Number One had been cannibalised to repair the others. Number Two was almost back together again. Number Three was still u/s but not for long. Number Four had been blown out of existence and was being completely rebuilt, as was TB2, our transport pod. The jury was still out over whether Number Seven could be saved. Numbers Five, Six and Eight were ready to go.
All the pods had been or were in the process of being upgraded and enlarged, because over the years we’d changed the way we staffed our assignments. When I first arrived at St Mary’s the norm had been short assignments staffed by two, possibly three people, usually historians. These days, our assignments were often longer and more complex and the inclusion of the Security and Technical Sections where appropriate meant we needed larger pods. Numbers Five, Six and Eight had been redesigned and could now hold anything from five to eight people. We had comfortable seats. Well, we had slightly less uncomfortable seats. The locker space was better designed and, in an effort to combat the hot, dry and frequently uncomfortable atmosphere, the ventilation system had been upgraded. Obviously, there had been a certain amount of grumbling over these changes – historians are by nature conservative and resistant to modernisation – although the retention of tea-making facilities, the introduction of even more cup holders and a specifically designated area for the biscuit tin had gone a long way towards soothing ruffled feathers. Before anyone asks, they – the pods, I mean, not the historians – do still stink of cabbage with an underlying smell of defeated air freshener, and the toilets still don’t work properly. I’d complained about all this to Leon who had responded that, for reasons which escaped him, the priority was getting historians there and back safely and you can’t have everything.
I took a final look around Hawking and spotted Leon in his office, frowning at a set of blueprints. I waved. He smiled for me alone and waved back.
‘OK, guys, let’s go.’
We climbed inside our pods and stowed our gear.
Mr Lindstrom gave the console one last check. ‘Ready when you are, Max. Good luck.’ He closed the door behind him.
I sat myself down, wriggled my bum in the unfamiliar seat, and checked the readouts. Here we go.
‘Computer, initiate jump.’
‘Jump initiated.’
The world went white.
And here we were. Bang on the nose. Greenwich, 1536. Fat Harry’s anus horribilis.
The place was heaving. That’s not a particularly historical term, but very accurate. There were people everywhere, all streaming in the same general direction. The noise was incredible. People shouted to each other, street hawkers bellowed their wares at the tops of their voices, women shrieked for their children to come here and for their husbands to go away. Dogs barked madly. The occasional horn sounded, as important people tried to shoulder their way through the solid mass of suddenly uncooperative people. Arguments broke out all around us. And the smell could strip paint.
We stood together in a tight group outside Number Eight, getting our bearings and waiting for our sense of smell to shut down. Occasionally someone would stagger as we were buffeted by those trying to get past.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Everyone knows where to go and what to do when they get there. Communal link. Look out for each other. And, for God’s sake, try to stay out of trouble.’
I don’t know why my gaze fell on Bashford at that moment. It just did. He gazed reproachfully back. Sykes nodded understandingly.
‘Good luck, everyone.’
They dispersed and I found myself with Peterson and Markham grinning at me.
‘The Dream Team,’ said Markham happily.
That wasn’t usually the phrase that described us, but I was so happy to be as nearly back to normal as we could ever be that I didn’t argue. And, besides, it was surely just coincidence that no one else ever wanted to be on our team. We were the equivalent of the puny kid with specs and the funny rash who always gets picked last.
There was no question of getting lost – we only had to follow everyone else through the narrow streets. I would have liked a little time to study the architecture – which in this case would have consisted of wondering how these houses were still standing, so warped were the timbers, but I had to watch where I put my feet. Not only were the streets deep in the usual Tudor debris, but such bits as were paved were covered in greasy, ankle-turning cobbles. We linked arms and allowed ourselves to be carried along with the crowd. Everyone seemed very cheerful, no doubt looking forward to the colour and spectacle and excitement and probable bloodshed and, on top of all that, we’d get to see the king. The king. The legendary Henry VIII. Fat Harry himself.
We found the lists with no trouble. A large, level area of grass that had been roped off, with a wide, wooden, stepped stand, festooned with crimson, gold and purple bunting set up to run along one side. In the centre of the stand, two magnificent canopied chairs had been set up. One was very much larger than the other. One for the king and one for the queen, although we knew she wouldn’t be here today, and nor were we sure whether Henry would preside over the tournament before taking part.
A central barrier – the tilt – ran down the length of the field. It was designed to keep the horses straight and give the riders a better chance of hitting each other. A thick layer of sand covered the ground on each side. I couldn’t decide whether it was to give the horses a better grip or to soak up the inevitable blood.
