Why is Nothing Ever Simple?

by Jodi Taylor

  The girls in the pod ignored him.

  ‘The external cameras are still running,’ said Elspeth, checking over the console. ‘Shall we see if there’s a clue there?’

  I took the other seat and Evans stood behind us.

  ‘Computer – play back external tapes.’

  ‘Playing back external tapes.’

  I’d read up on the battle obviously, so I knew pretty much what to expect and I have to say – apart from the normal troop movements as everyone shuffled into position – not a lot was happening.

  ‘This must be fairly early on,’ I said. ‘There’s no blood or bodies that I can see.’

  ‘Well, something must have happened,’ said Evans. ‘Something took them out of the pod.’

  I felt Elspeth tremble.

  ‘Not Clive Ronan,’ I said in an effort to reassure both of us. ‘They’re none of them overendowed with brains but even they know he couldn’t get in. They’re perfectly safe as long as they remain inside the pod.’

  ‘It must be something to do with the battle,’ said Evans. ‘Something unusual or unexpected, perhaps.’

  I instructed them to keep watching.

  Nothing was happening. Well, there was a lot of milling around obviously. Battlefields are chaotic places. It’s interesting to think I’ve probably seen more battlefields than even the most experienced general. Concentrate, Maxwell.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, talking to the screen. ‘What did you see?’

  And then . . .

  ‘Hang on,’ said Evans, leaning forwards.

  The English were on the move. A group of about three hundred men detached themselves from the main force and appeared to be trying to get to Stirling Castle.

  ‘I know this bit,’ I said, pointing at the screen. ‘This is Clifford and de Beaumont. These are the opening moves. The Scots will move forwards to block them.’

  They didn’t just block them – they charged with such force they split the English line clean in two. Chaos ensued. There was no clear leadership – always a feature of Edward II’s reign. Of the scattered English forces, half pushed on to Stirling – the other half lost their nerve, were routed and fled back to the safety of the English lines. We could hear the shouts of derision from the Scottish camp.

  While this was happening, the bulk of the English forces were slowly and ponderously on the move. Led by the Earls of Hereford and Gloucester, they headed straight for the Scottish lines.

  ‘They thought the mere sight of their superior numbers would cause the Scots to panic and retreat back into the New Park,’ said Grey. I suspected she’d been hearing a lot about Bannockburn over the past few weeks. ‘And to be fair, until today, that was their preferred method of warfare. Oh look – here we go.’

  The most magnificent figure appeared at the forefront of the English lines. Elspeth focused on his shield. Blue and yellow. Azure, a bend argent between six lions rampant or. The de Bohun family arms. This was Henry de Bohun, riding one of the biggest horses I’d ever seen. The man who famously challenged Robert Bruce to personal combat.

  Trumpets rang out from the crowded English lines. We could hear them cheering. Which turned to laughter when Bruce eventually appeared from the Scottish ranks. Whereas de Bohun was fully equipped and armoured and resplendent on his warhorse, Bruce was only lightly armoured and rode a much smaller and lighter horse. A mud-splattered palfrey. A comfortable, lady’s ride. Bruce would have used his for cantering from one side of his military camp to the other. Definitely not for charging into battle. We could actually hear the jeers and mockery spreading through the English ranks. They must have thought it was hilarious.

  In contrast to de Bohun’s full battle rig, Bruce wore only a sword and carried an axe. You could just hear the English thinking – well, this won’t take long. What an idiot.

  A trumpet sounded again. Light and tinny but clear over our sound system. Before the last notes had died away, de Bohun was off. His great horse reared up, appearing to claw at the sullen sky, fought with its rider for a moment, then lowered its head and thundered towards Bruce, who suddenly looked very small and vulnerable on his little palfrey. We could see great clods of mud being thrown high into the air, dark against the lighter sky.

  De Bohun’s horse might be huge and powerful but Bruce’s was more nimble. And, like its rider, it apparently had nerves of steel, barely batting an eyelid as man and monster thundered towards it. At just the right moment, it stepped neatly to one side. At the same time, Bruce actually ducked under the point of de Bohun’s lance, and then, standing in his stirrups, he stabbed upwards with his axe, point first.

  It seemed to catch de Bohun under the chin – an unusual blow from an unusual angle, massively risky, but it paid off. Such was the force of his blow that he shattered de Bohun’s head, tearing it clean off his shoulders and sending it soaring high into the air, trailing long ribbons of scarlet blood behind it.

  De Bohun’s body slumped to one side, frightening and unbalancing his horse which galloped back to the English lines, reins and stirrups flying. It was met with a stunned and disbelieving silence.

  The Scots didn’t waste time cheering. Robert Bruce had them all on the attack, smashing into the English forces while they were still ponderously trying to get themselves into position.

  We never saw what happened to de Bohun’s head.

  ‘Well . . .’ said Evans, which pretty well summed up everything.

  ‘Well, I knew he lost his head,’ I said, ‘but that must have been one hell of an axe.’

  And indeed, Bruce’s only comment when he returned to his own lines was to lament the loss of his good axe.

  Evans opened his mouth to say something and at that moment, the picture trembled. Just very slightly. As if there had been some sort of impact with the pod.

  ‘What was that?’ I said, standing up. ‘What just happened?’

  ‘Wait here,’ said Evans. ‘Don’t touch the cameras. Don’t change the angles.’ He disappeared outside.

  We watched him on the screen. I saw him appear briefly, glance up and wave and then disappear round the side of the pod.

  After a few minutes he was back. ‘Max, come and look at this. Careful now. Elspeth, you stay put – just in case.’

  I pulled out my blaster and slipped out to join him. Silently he gestured to the side of the pod.

  All our pods are much the same. Some are smaller, some are bigger, but they all have the same design: Apparently stone-built huts that blend into their surroundings. The stone bit is simply a cosmetic casing. It’s fairly robust – although I’ve knocked some corners off in my time. It’s supposed to be fireproof too, although I did manage to melt it once. The point I’m making, though, is that although the casing has faced some challenges in its professional life, I don’t think it’s ever had to cope with a diagonal spray of ten or twelve small round holes slanting upwards, straight through the centre of the carefully stencilled Saltire, up towards the top right-hand corner.

  There was no mistaking what they were.

  ‘Bullet holes?’ I said in disbelief. ‘Bullets at Bannockburn?’

  Evans nodded, threw a worried glance around and then said, ‘Back inside, please.’

  ‘I’ve checked around everywhere,’ said Elspeth as we re-entered. ‘They left no messages – no clues – nothing. And there’s no response to my calls, either.’

  ‘Let’s see some more of the tape.’

  What followed consisted mostly of troop movements and a few minor skirmishes. We watched, but our hearts weren’t in it and after about ten minutes we blanked the screens.

  Evans turned to face us. ‘I can think of four explanations.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘One – they’ve removed their earpieces – for some reason that may not necessarily be bad.

  ‘Two – they’re out of range. Which is
unlikely. They’d have to be several miles away.

  ‘Three – they’re physically unable to respond – again for some reason that may not necessarily be bad.’

  He stopped.

  ‘Or they’re dead,’ said Elspeth, quietly.

  I caught Evans’s eye. ‘Unlikely,’ he said. ‘If it was just historians on their own, then I’d be considering that because everyone knows they’re a bunch of overeducated, intellectually stunted idiots with delusions of adequacy, but we’re talking about Mr Markham and the major here, so my betting is that if there are any casualties, they’ll be on the other side.’

  It was a good save. Elspeth looked reassured.

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘They were present for the duel between de Bohun and Bruce. The camera work proves that. We can see the changing angles and there are close-ups and so on. That would be Peterson’s work. Subsequent to that, there’s only the one camera operating and that from a single angle. The main events are not even in shot a lot of the time. In other words, the camera was on but no one was operating it. Or even watching the screen. I think it’s fair to say they watched the duel and then left. Why?’

  ‘Because the pod was under attack and they went to investigate?’ said Evans.

  Well, of course they did. Why would anyone remain safely inside a pod when they could get out there and investigate who was spraying bullets around in the middle of a battle on a summer’s day in 1314? I’d have been out of the door in a flash.

  ‘I’ve been reviewing the records,’ said Elspeth, still at the console. ‘They left the pod nine minutes after the Bruce/de Bohun incident.’

  ‘No record of why?’

  ‘None. The door was open for seven seconds and then closed. It didn’t open again until we turned up.’

  ‘Nothing on camera?’ asked Evans.

  ‘No, it was pointing the other way.’

  ‘So they went to investigate,’ I said, and sighed. So much for not stepping outside the pod.

  ‘What do you want to do, Max?’ asked Evans. ‘Do we go back and report? Or do we go and check it out?’

  They both looked at me.

  Going back would waste valuable time if they were in trouble now, right at this moment. On the other hand, returning with more people would make finding them considerably easier. If they weren’t already dead. Six of one – half a dozen of the other. I threw it open to the floor.

  ‘Your recommendations, please,’ I said.

  ‘We go and look for them,’ said Elspeth.

  Evans nodded.

  I nodded too. ‘Unanimously settled then.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to call them up,’ said Elspeth. ‘As far as I can establish, their coms are working but they’re just not responding.’

  ‘No need to read anything into that,’ said Evans, just a shade too heartily. ‘It might simply be that they’re not in a position to answer and there could be many reasons for that.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elspeth. ‘Perhaps they’re in a hollow or a cave, or something similar.’

  Evans and I very carefully didn’t look at each other. ‘You’re absolutely right,’ he said. ‘No cause for alarm just yet. Right then. It’s you and me, Max. Elspeth, it makes sense for you to remain here as point of contact. They’ll probably be back in a minute and we’ll have done all this for nothing. We’ll leave our coms open at all times. Give us a shout if you see anything. Max – you stay behind me. Don’t worry, Elspeth. We’ll be back before you know it.’

  Our proximities were useless. Well, no, actually they were working perfectly, showing every single one of the thirty thousand men out there.

  Our tag readers weren’t much better. Over the years we’ve found the quickest and easiest way to find any missing colleagues is to close our eyes and keep walking until we fall over them. It helps if the rescuees can jump up and down, shouting, ‘We’re over here, stupid,’ and set off a few fizzers as well.

  The readers were giving us two readings – one for Peterson and one for Markham – Guthrie had had his tag removed when he left St Mary’s – but were declining to tell us in which direction and how far away our missing colleagues actually were. So, helpful as ever.

  I tucked myself behind Evans and we moved very slowly and very carefully, flitting from tree to tree, watching where we put our feet and keeping our eyes open. There were God knows how many armed men jammed into these few square miles. Anyone they didn’t recognise was an enemy and would be treated as such.

  Time passed. We paused at regular intervals to crouch behind trees to try to raise the other team but there was still nothing. We were still in communication with Elspeth, so the obvious conclusion was that our boys were for some reason unable to respond, and that was deeply worrying.

  More time passed. The wood itself was silent – there was no birdsong or woodland noises – and trees deaden sound so the noises of men and horses had dwindled into a distant murmur beyond the trees, from which would emerge a trumpet call, occasionally, or the whinny of horses. The sounds were far off but continuous. A constant reminder of what was happening not that far away.

  I began to have a very bad feeling. The further we got from the pod the more nervous I became. There could be a man hidden behind every tree. There could be traps set to catch spies. The area to cover was huge. The two of us could barely scratch the surface. We needed more people and better equipment. I think Evans was feeling the same way because he took a quick look around and then pulled me down into a shallow ditch, whispering, ‘Max – I’m not happy about any of this. There’s not enough cover and we’re too close to the battle lines.’

  He was right. We were slightly above and to the south-west of the action but still close enough to see the southern edge of the Scottish lines. As far as I knew no action took place anywhere in the Torwood – no official action, anyway – but there would be troop movements and scouts and we were far more exposed than I was happy with.

  ‘We have to look for them,’ said Elspeth, managing to sound angry even over the com. ‘We can’t just go home.’

  ‘We can come back with more people and cover more ground more quickly,’ said Evans, quietly, trying to calm her down.

  ‘And waste more time.’

  ‘He’s right,’ I said. Listen to me being Mrs Sensible. ‘We’ll have more tag readers. We’ll be able to triangulate much more quickly and easily. We could even stand Bashford on the roof with a loudhailer. What we can’t do is creep around in the middle of a battle looking for three people who, if they’ve got any sense, have climbed a tree and are waiting quietly for a chance to get back to their pod.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Elspeth, our chances of finding them in this lot are—’

  Evans cocked his head suddenly and gestured me to silence. His proximity meter was lighting up like a Christmas tree. Given their uselessness, this generally meant someone was standing about two inches to our right.

  I whispered, ‘Elspeth – got something. Call you back.’

  We worked our way very quietly and slowly along the ditch. The trees were closer together here and there was more cover. Best of all, the almost permanent mizzle had solidified decades of fallen leaves into a wet, dense, but fortunately silent carpet.

  At a sign from Evans, we both halted and hoisted a couple of very cautious eyes over the edge.

  I didn’t see him at first. All credit to Evans because I thought I was just staring at a heap of miscellaneous forest foliage and I wasn’t.

  The shape resolved itself like one of those 3D pictures. I was looking at a man wearing a sophisticated camouflage suit. A ghillie suit, as Evans later described it. Unbelievably, I was looking at a sniper, lying prone and quietly nursing a long-barrelled, super-sighted, bolt-action sniper rifle.

  OK – so not one of my lost boys. Who were still out there somewhere. This was a sniper. The thought kept running thro
ugh my head. A sniper. There was a sniper here at Bannockburn. In 1314. Suddenly the spray of bullets across the pod made a little more sense. And de Bohun’s shattered head as well. A lucky axe stroke – possibly. An armour-piercing bullet – almost certainly.

  Evans gestured for me to stay put and I was very happy to do so. He’s a grown lad and could easily handle this one on his own. Inch by inch he pulled himself out of the ditch. For a big bloke he moved very quietly, never dislodging earth or leaves, not letting the edge crumble, placing his hands and feet with delicate precision.

  Having extricated himself, he paused for a moment, gathered himself and then literally launched himself through the air to land squarely on our would-be sniper.

  The impact must have knocked all the air out of the sniper’s body. And possibly broken a few of his bones. And crushed a few vital organs, as well. Evans is not small, as I say. At any rate, he put up no sort of fight and quick as a flash, even with the difficulties of getting hold of him in that suit, Evans had him trussed like a Christmas turkey. I was very impressed. I might even remember to tell him so.

  I climbed out of the ditch, skidding down the slight slope to where Evans had just finished securing our new friend, and we rolled him over on his back and pulled off his hood to have a better look.

  I don’t remember his face because the first thing I noticed was the red and white badge of St George on his sleeve. Silly sod. What’s the point of doing yourself up to look like a piece of Scottish woodland if you’ve got St George emblazoned all over your arm? And at Bannockburn, for God’s sake. What an idiot.

  Besides, it didn’t make sense. If they were English, then why shoot de Bohun? His spectacular defeat had pretty much set the tone for the entire battle. The whole thing was one disaster after another for the English. And then I remembered how, at the very last moment, Bruce’s well-trained horse had executed that neat side-step and Bruce himself ducked, then suddenly stood in his stirrups to deliver that deadly blow. In my mind I saw the bullet whistle harmlessly past Bruce to shatter de Bohun’s head instead.

  You see – this is what happens when you try to interfere with History. At the very least you end up bringing about the very thing you tried to prevent. At the very worst you end up dead. Bloody amateurs.