An Argumentation of Historians

by Jodi Taylor

  And curled neatly on the blanket were two blue ribbons and two green ribbons.

  Christmas was much jollier than I thought it would be.

  The hall and staircase were decorated with holly and ivy woven into swags. The red berries looked cheerful amongst the greenery. The Yule Log was brought in amid much laughter and ceremony and even more drinking.

  William Hendred, Tam the Welshman and a couple of others took the dogs and went hunting for hare, deer, or boar. We had a falconer, known as Nob although I was sure that wasn’t his real name, who took his birds out for rabbits. Someone slaughtered a pig kept especially for the occasion and any number of geese didn’t make it through December. Fat Piers and his kitchen crew went into overdrive. His language became so fiery that either the dishes he was creating were truly magnificent or he was auditioning for the medieval equivalent of a TV-chef programme. Whatever the reason, we all benefited from the results.

  They’d also caught massive quantities of carp which were now spending their days in barrels of fresh water, rather than the liquid mud of the carp ponds outside, the reason being, it was explained to me, that this would filter out the mud and we’d all have lovely fresh carp over Christmas. Baked according to Fat Piers’s special recipe, they said.

  We ate until we were stuffed. It was all delicious. And fresh. Most of what we were eating had travelled food yards rather than food miles.

  These were the days when people made their own entertainment. Yes, there were jesters, strolling minstrels, troupes of acrobats, conjurors and so on, but few of them ever made it past Rushford to our remote manor. So we did it ourselves. There were songs and stories. Everyone already knew the story word for word, but that was the point. Breath was held at the exciting bits. Even children sat silent and enthralled. King Arthur was a special favourite. Everyone took part. Even me. Somewhat nervously, I gave them the hastily edited story of Sir Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight of great renown, and the wicked dragon Darth Vader, complete with asthmatic breathing and hollow voice. I’ll admit I did get a little carried away during the final duel, as the wicked dragon fell, pierced by the sword of the true knight, Sir Luke, to perish in his own flames. It seemed to go quite well. People nodded. Evil is always vanquished in the end.

  But not for me. For me, evil won every time. I sat by the hearth, staring into the flames and trying not to think of last Christmas, when Leon, Matthew and I had been together. I kept hearing Matthew’s voice, ‘Mummy’s awesome.’

  I truly felt I had begun to make some progress with him? Where did he think I was now? What had the Time Police told him? Had he even noticed I wasn’t around? And Leon? What of Leon? I’d been gone seven or eight months. For him it might be even longer. Had he moved on? Worse – had he moved out of St Mary’s altogether. He was always threatening to go and work on the Mars Project – especially when the History Department had been even more rigorous than usual in their treatment of one of his beloved pods. And then I’d tell myself not to be so stupid. Leon would never top looking for me. There was every chance he’d walk through the door any moment now, heading up a rescue party. Peterson would be there, too. And Markham, shambolic and scruffy, and with a better handle on what was happening than anyone else.

  Sometimes I would actually raise my head and look at the door and, of course, nothing would happen and I would sigh and carry on with whatever I was doing.

  Twelfth Night came and went with all the usual festivities. The decorations were taken down on and, reluctantly, we all went back to work.

  We’d had a white Christmas. No one got excited about it. There had been a mini Ice Age in the 14th century and most Christmasses were white. Snow fell every night as the weather worsened. As the snow fell, the need for firewood rose. There were a lot of us out in the woods these days. William was a liberal master who saw no reason why anyone should be cold but there was never enough wood. Temperatures dropped. The snow became crispy and sparkled in the weak winter sunshine. Trust me, snow is no fun when you have no dry shoes to change into. I dried mine in front of the fire ever night and it wasn’t doing the leather any good at all. They would probably last out the winter, but a pair of shoes was the next thing on my list. I missed my old boots – lifelong companions who would almost certainly outlive me.

  On one cold, sparkling day I was tramping through the snow under a deep blue sky. It was so cold even the birds weren’t singing. I was following William the Carpenter’s flat wagon down a snowy track, as we picked up more firewood. Every day we had to range further and further afield. I had an armful and was hastening to catch him up when, on my right, a bush waved violently, shedding snow in all directions and someone said ‘Pssst’. Or the medieval equivalent anyway.

  My heart soared. I couldn’t believe it. They’d found me. Somehow, St Mary’s had found me. At last. I had no idea how, but they’d found me. Checking no one was looking, I put down my wood, stepped off the track and someone dropped something over my head and held it tightly. I kicked out, but he was very strong. I struggled like a madwoman, but my arms were pinioned. I tried to shout but I had a mouthful of what tasted like old sack. I was literally helpless. My feet were off the ground and I couldn’t get a purchase. I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear … couldn’t breathe …

  I think I was only out for a few moments. When I was able to take notice again, the wood was completely silent. No voices called to each other. No patient tramp of William Carpenter’s aged horse. No creak of wagon wheels. Nothing. As far as I could ascertain, I was hanging, limp, in someone’s arms. I stayed that way while I tried to work out what was happening. It seemed safe to assume this wasn’t a St Mary’s rescue mission.

  The second thought was Ronan. That somehow, he’d wormed the truth out of my two pleasant but very incompetent kidnappers and turned up in person to finish me off. That didn’t seem tremendously likely either.

  And then he shifted me slightly in his arms – I’m not light – and I caught a forgotten but familiar scent. Onions and urine.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  Now I was in trouble.

  I kicked out again and began to struggle. I had to tear myself free while William Carpenter was within earshot although whether he would hear me over the clump of his horse’s hooves and the creak of his ancient cart I had no idea, and every step took him further away from me and into the white, misty, sound-swallowing woods.

  My captor cursed and changing to a one-handed grip, he punched me hard in the kidneys which shut me up for a while as I was carted off through the woods.

  He didn’t have it all his own way. I’m not light and the going was rough underfoot. He stumbled several times, once falling almost to his knees. I could hear his laboured breathing and the occasional curse.

  In all too short a time I heard a muttered exchange and I was chucked into the back of what I presumed was another cart. Someone climbed in after me and passed the time trying to put his hand up my skirt. I kicked out hard and something connected somewhere because he gave a sharp cry of pain. Someone else told him to keep quiet, chirped at his horse and we bumped our way along a rough track.

  The journey seemed over with very quickly. I wasn’t sure if this was good or bad. I was dragged from the cart, set on my feet with a jolt and pushed forwards.

  Ahead of me, I heard a door open. I tripped up a step and knew by the sudden changes in sound and temperature that I was inside. Someone pulled off my hood and finally, I could see.

  I shook my hair of my face and stared around, no little outraged. In fact, I was absolutely bloody furious. Seriously? Seriously? How many times could one person be kidnapped? It was like those Russian dolls. This was a kidnap inside a kidnap, for crying out loud. Bloody bollocking hell – a lot of people would suffer for this and not one of them was going to be me.

  Two men stood in front of me and as far as I could make out, another two behind me. My heart sank. The two I could see were Guy and Jerald, formerly of Rushford. This was a revenge kidnapping, rather along t
he lines of Greeks snatching each other’s princesses, as described by that shit-faced bastard, Herodotus. Of course, again according to Herodotus, that all ended with the fall of Troy and death and destruction on a massive scale. Well, that would give me something to aim at. Because I was bloody livid. I’d had enough. I was sick to bloody death of bloody men swanning into my life, picking me up and dumping me somewhere else. Well, no more. I might not be able to do anything about Ronan, but this lot were bloody well going down and I would be the one to do it. They would live just long enough to regret the day they ever clapped eyes on me.

  Looking at them now, I could see that neither was as sleek and prosperous as they’d been six months ago. Before they’d tangled with St Mary’s. Their clothes were worn and smelled none too fresh. I was guessing neither of them knew how to use a needle or mend their own gear, so they were beginning to look very shabby. Guy was paying off onion man and his friend so I guessed the Rushford boys lived here alone in what was probably some sort of hunting lodge. We were in a square, stone room quite snugly fitted out with a blazing fire, two chairs, and a table with several flagons of wine. A couple of faded tapestries hung on the wall and had done so for some considerable time by the looks of them. I wondered if this had once been a favoured meeting place for the Rushford men and their mistresses – or boyfriends, of course. Or, looking at Jerald, a favourite sheep. This was somewhere deep in the forest – quiet and private. Just like the Rushford boys themselves, however, it had seen better days. Yeah, well, that’s what happens to people who tangle with St Mary’s – things never end well. And they were about to get a lot worse and not for me. I really was feeling quite belligerent.

  Over in the corner, a door led to what I guessed was some sort of kitchen because they had to have had somewhere to prepare the results of their day’s hunting. And in the other corner, a rickety – a very rickety – flight of stairs that wasn’t much more than a ladder led up to God knows where. At least one other room – possibly two. Maybe even three, depending on how many guests they were in the habit of entertaining.

  I wondered if William Hendred was aware of this place. Or even Hugh Armstrong. If I was looking for the Rushfords this was the first place I would have looked.

  Oh, of course. Guy and Jerald had hidden, waited for the place to be searched, and then moved in. Once it was all clear. Very few people think to go back and search a place twice.

  Guy tossed the two men a small leather purse, jerking his head at the door. They were to get out. Onion man sent me one last knowing leer and the two of them filed out of the door, slamming it behind them.

  I didn’t bother to watch them go. I moved to the fire and held out my numb hands to the flames.

  To be honest, I was at a bit of a loss as to why I was here. If they wanted someone to keep them warm these long cold nights, there were younger and prettier women than me around. For Jerald, there were younger and prettier sheep around than me, and surely I wasn’t important enough for a bit of petty personal revenge. I suppose it was possible they knew it had been my idea to take their castle, but this was 1400 – women didn’t have ideas and if they did, some man was usually able to persuade them that the idea had been his all along. A wise woman would nod, smile, think cretin, and go off to feed the poultry.

  The fire crackled. Behind me I could hear Jerald pouring wine. Bet there wasn’t one for me.

  I was wrong. He poured three beakers and Guy passed one to me. I sniffed it suspiciously.

  He smiled at this but said nothing.

  From the brief glimpse I’d had of Guy back at St Mary’s, I’d had the impression of a dark, powerful man. Now I’d seen Hugh Armstrong as well, I could see there was a vague resemblance around the mouth and nose. Other than that, there were no similarities. Hugh was tall, fair and built like a whippet who hadn’t had a good meal for a month. Guy was a bulky bully. A part of my mind said, ‘Norman.’

  And then we were joined by joined by Jerald the Gormless who didn’t look like anyone in particular. For which the rest of the human race was probably very grateful.

  The last time I’d seen him had been on the end of Margery’s bucket when he’d fallen into the burning shed. She should have let me fish him out. One side of his face was red and shiny and a large patch of his hair had burned away revealing puckered skin. I was betting it wouldn’t ever grow back. That had been a bad day for the Rushfords. Guy had lost his title and his lands and Jerald had lost what little looks he’d had to begin with. Now he was something to frighten small children.

  They stood together looking at me. I was determined not to speak first. Nothing undermines your position as much as hysterically demanding an explanation for this outrage. I turned to look at the flames and pretended I didn’t care.

  ‘The foreign woman,’ said Guy, in Latin. So he knew all about me.

  I said nothing.

  ‘The masterless woman.’ He sipped. ‘No one’s property.’

  I wondered if I could get away with pretending I didn’t understand him. On the other hand, if he was busy talking then he wasn’t doing anything more unpleasant to me.

  I nodded and said in English. ‘Yep – that’s me.’

  He frowned at these strange words. Jerald finished his wine and poured another. His brother told him sharply that he’d already had too much. Defiantly, Jerald tossed it back.

  Guy was waiting for me to have hysterics, demand to be released, burst into tears, plead for mercy, and so on. I sipped my wine. It wasn’t bad. Better than I usually got, anyway. I sipped some more. I have some of my best ideas when I’ve had a few drinks. Or so it always seems at the time.

  ‘Do you understand me?’

  I nodded with my ‘of course I understand you – do you take me for a complete idiot?’ expression, and still didn’t ask why I was here. I suspected he was dying to tell me anyway.

  ‘Revenge.’

  Well, yes, I’d gathered that.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, slowly so he could understand me. ‘That is obvious. It is my role in your revenge that is not clear.’

  ‘I seek to destroy Hugh Armstrong. To get to him I must break his good friend and ally, William Hendred. An almost impossible task, I thought, until someone told me of the foreign woman he so dotes upon. And so, to break William Hendred, I must hurt you.’

  My heart began to thump but I pretended to consider this. ‘Yes, I see. A good plan. May I have some more wine, please.’

  His mouth crooked in a rather unpleasant smile. ‘Do you think that is wise?’

  ‘I rather suspect I am going to need it.’

  He nodded an acknowledgement and poured it himself.

  Jerald, the one who was causing me the most concern, was alternately staring at me and then at the fire. Unconsciously he reached up and touched his burned face. I had to get out of here.

  Guy was speaking again. ‘I confess I have never had any love for Master Hendred, and now I find myself harbouring a desire to do him as much damage as possible – starting with you.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said slowly. ‘I think you should be the one to start with me.’

  He frowned.

  I nodded at Jerald. ‘If you want your share of revenge then you should go first. I suspect once Master Jerald starts, then for me, it will all be over with very quickly. We both know he is not always in control of himself.’

  It was a shot in the dark but not a wild one. I had heard enough gossip about Jerald.

  I drained my beaker. The wine was really rather good. I watched the corners of the room blur in a way that wasn’t completely because I can’t see that well these days. I wasn’t sure whether the wine was a good move or not but at this precise moment, I needed all the courage I could get.

  He ran his hand down my breast. ‘You seem strangely … amenable.’

  I don’t know why people think I’m not amenable. I really don’t.

  I sighed. ‘I have been the property of William Hendred for six months. He has not used me well.’

&nb
sp; He stood very close. ‘I shall not use you well either.’

  I moved even closer to him and looked him in the eye. ‘William Hendred is … overrated. Are you?’

  We were chest to chest. ‘Ah – now that is a word that has never been used to describe my … performance.’

  I made a small sound of contempt. ‘That is what all men say.’

  He went to speak but was interrupted by Jerald banging his beaker on the table. ‘Stop talking all the time. You promised me.’

  His brother broke eye contact and turned to him. ‘Drink more wine, Jerald. Leave us to … talk.’

  I gave him a small half smile. ‘Oh. More talk. Always more talk.’

  He looked down at me. ‘I wonder about you.’

  ‘Many do.’

  ‘I wonder whether you are the very clever woman I think you might be.’

  I drank more wine. Bloody hell, this was good stuff. ‘I am clever enough to see the flaw – the enormous flaw – in this great plan of yours.’

  It broke the spell. He stepped back. ‘What enormous flaw?’

  I too stepped back. Ignoring Jerald as if he didn’t exist, I picked up a flagon and two beakers and set off for the stairs.’

  Guy caught me in two long strides. ‘Oh no. I do not let you out of my sight.’

  I sighed theatrically. ‘Two minutes is all I need.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  I sighed again. ‘Preparations. Women’s things.’

  You can get away with murder simply by citing ‘women’s things’. The phrase ‘women’s things’ implies all sorts of dark and dubious female mysteries than men don’t have a clue about. Especially in this medieval day and age. But also in the future too. Pre-Dr Bairstow, I’d once had a boss who was a complete moron and he’d demanded, at the top of his voice, in front of an entire roomful of men, exactly why I’d made a simple mistake on some paperwork. I let the silence gather and then boomed, ‘Pre-menstrual tension, I expect,’ in a voice that bounced off three continents. He left me alone after that.