by C. R. Berry
“Correct. And as you know from my blog, in February 1105, Father Jerome detailed a deathbed confession from Purkis, the man who took William II’s body to Winchester and, we know now, also witnessed the king’s death.”
“Do you have the original manuscript?”
“I did have, but I was only allowed to keep it for a few weeks. I got some tests done on it and copies made in that time. You can see there the results of the carbon dating test, proving that it originated in the 12th century. The original’s been sent to the British Library. Have a read of the papers that are in English. I’ve translated the Latin. And any expert will tell you that it’s a near-perfect translation.”
“Fortunately I have a pretty good grasp of medieval Latin myself.” Jennifer had read a bit of the Latin in the photos on Ferro’s blog, but not a lot since they weren’t very good images.
“You do?” said Ferro.
“Yes. I learned Latin as part of my history degree.”
“Even better, then. Just read the photocopies. You’ll see that I’m not fabricating any of this.”
Would she, though? There were tons of clever ways of hoaxing historical manuscripts, and Jennifer was only looking at photocopies, not the original text.
On the other hand, Ferro had told her that the original was at the British Library, so she could just look it up there if she doubted him.
She read the copies. At points, she compared them to Ferro’s translation. Pretty spot-on.
And yes, according to Father Jerome, Purkis had described on his deathbed seeing a man falsely calling himself Walter Tyrrell shoot the king after questioning him about an unnamed book. He then had a conversation with a flat, black, rectangular object that admittedly did sound like a phone, before swallowing a red stone and vanishing.
Jennifer finished reading and said coolly, “Okay.”
“Do you see what I mean?” said Ferro. “Seems obvious to me that Tyrrell was talking on a mobile phone. And this little red stone that made him disappear… I suspect it was a time travel device of some kind.”
Jennifer played devil’s advocate. “But you’re reading something written in the 1100s through modern eyes. There could be hundreds of rational explanations for what Purkis saw.”
“Alright.” Ferro sat back in his chair. “Such as?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe instead of being on the phone, Tyrrell was just talking to himself and scratching his ear. This object, if there really was one, could be anything. A stone, a piece of wood, an item of clothing. We don’t know how far away Purkis was standing, or how good his eyesight was. And maybe the little red stone he ate was just a berry or a nut or some kind of medicine – they did have pills back then, just not ones like ours. And instead of disappearing into thin air, Tyrrell could’ve ducked behind a tree. Or have you considered that maybe Purkis hallucinated the whole thing on his deathbed? Or lied? This is just one account, told through Father Jerome, so it’s not even first-hand. And there’s nothing backing it up, which I know, because I studied William II’s death.”
“Quite the sceptic,” Ferro said, smiling. “I respect that. But there’s more.”
Ferro lifted something else from his box file and handed it to her. Copies of Simon of Stonebury’s History of England. “This is just an extract showing the section I talked about in my blog, the bit about the plague doctor. I sourced it from the Parker Library at –”
“Corpus Christi College, Cambridge,” Jennifer answered for him. “History graduate, remember.”
She skim-read the extract, but she already knew – from reading Ferro’s blog – what she wanted to say. “Okay, but this isn’t really anything,” she said, handing it back to him.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s a rumour, isn’t it? Rumours aren’t evidence.”
“And the fact that this is, once again, about a book? The fact that the plague doctor was seen talking on a device held to his ear, before vanishing? Just like Tyrrell?”
Jennifer said flatly, “Coincidence.”
Ferro frowned.
“And it’s a rumour that ‘someone’ saw the plague doctor doing all that,” she added. “There aren’t any named witnesses here.”
Ferro sighed. Jennifer wondered if she was being too hard on him. He dug some more papers from his box file. “Alright, take at look at these, then. This is what I discovered yesterday, the thing I mentioned last night.”
He handed her some more photocopies, this time pages from a modern history book, Secrets of the Great Pestilence by Edith Starkey, published in 1977. As well as the title, copyright and contents pages, he’d copied a section called Legend of the Evil Plague Doctor, relaying an account from Ralph of Wallingsworth that virtually mirrored Simon of Stonebury’s.
Jennifer then read about the ‘Godfrey letter’, swallowing a laugh when she read that the ‘the book with a strange title’ the evil plague doctor was chasing was supposed to have been called The History of Computer-Aided Timetabling for Railway Systems. Was this whole thing a giant leg-pull?
She looked at Ferro, trying her hardest not to smile. “This is a joke, right? The History of Computer-Aided Timetabling for Railway Systems?”
“I suspected as much when I first read that. But no. It’s no joke.”
“Where did you find this Edith Starkey book?”
Ferro was hesitant, then said quietly, “Portphilly Museum, North Wales.”
Jennifer rolled her eyes. That explained it. “Portphilly? Also known as the ‘Museum of Bad History’? Surely you know about that place. No self-respecting historian would rely on anything in it.”
“I know its reputation. But I also think it’s exaggerated. Not everything there is bogus.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard.”
“Look. The main thing to take from this is a matter of simple fact. Edith Starkey is talking about a book by Jeremy Jennings called The History of Computer-Aided Timetabling for Railway Systems in 1977. I googled this book yesterday and it is real. But it was first published in 1995, eighteen years after it was cited in Edith Starkey’s book. You can look it up for yourself. How do you explain that?”
Jennifer sat back in her chair. “Mmm.” Admittedly, that had stumped her a little bit.
At the same time, she still couldn’t trust anything to come out of Portphilly Museum, and this – all of it – was just too far-fetched for her to accept. Yes, okay, so there was one puzzling detail to this story that she couldn’t (right now) explain, but evidentially, Ferro’s case for time travellers messing with history was about as strong as a wet noodle.
“I’m sorry, Ferro. I just don’t buy it. It’s a great story. I love a good time travel story and it sounds like something out of Doctor Who, which I also love. You probably guessed that already from my username.”
Ferro looked blank.
“Wibbly wobbly timey wimey?”
Still looked blank.
“You know, when David Tennant calls time a ‘big ball of wibbly wobbly timey wimey stuff’ when he’s talking about paradoxes?”
Ferro maintained his blank look, now marked with a hint of get to the damn point.
“Guess not,” said Jennifer. “Anyway, while I love a good science fiction story, I never lose sight of the fact that it’s science fiction. Time travel’s impossible.”
Ferro took back his papers and closed his box file. “Okay. Fine.” He was pissed – she could tell. “I’m starting to feel like you think I’m delusional. Like I’m a fantasist or something.”
Jennifer nearly vocalised, Well, aren’t you?
“I’m not,” Ferro said. “I’m fully aware of how implausible this sounds but that doesn’t mean it’s not real. I know that I’m onto something big here. I can just feel it.”
“I’m sure you can.”
Ferro frowned. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well, you’re religious, aren’t you?” Jennifer pointed at Ferro’s crucifix.
“I’m Catholic. What
does that have to do with anything?”
“It means you’re inherently more willing to believe in nonsense.”
His voice rose a touch in volume, pinched with irritation, “I beg your pardon?”
Jennifer tried to clarify. “I just mean that you’re more suggestible, easier to persuade.” Okay, that probably made it worse. “More gullible.” Jen, shut up now.
Ferro gave her a piercing glare. If looks could kill, she’d be dead, buried and fully decomposed.
“I think we should leave it there,” Ferro said, noticeably holding back. He stood up and started gathering his things.
“I’m just trying to help,” said Jennifer.
Ferro’s eyes widened. “Help?”
“I’m just trying to give you a little perspective. You’ve clearly gotten a bit obsessed with all this. What do your family think?”
Ferro’s glare returned and sharpened, and his tone went from irritated to angry. “Don’t psychoanalyse me, and don’t talk about my family.” He took a breath and said more calmly, “This was a mistake. Goodbye, Jennifer.”
He took his stuff and left the pub.
Jennifer finished her pint, reflecting on what she’d said. Definitely shouldn’t have called him gullible. Or obsessed. Or brought up his family. She’d only just met him. That wasn’t cool. But it wasn’t the first time her wayward mouth had got her in trouble. Yesterday, case in point.
She felt guilty now. She hadn’t meant to upset him.
She’d been extremely unbending in her scepticism too. What if he had a point? Was discounting all of his research as a bunch of meaningless coincidences short-sighted? Naive, even?
Then again, if she accepted what Ferro was saying, she’d be accepting that time travel was real.
She couldn’t do that, could she?
7
June 5th 1482
“W-what is the meaning of this?” cried Edward IV, bolting upright in bed, startled awake by the clatter of his bedchamber door swinging open and striking the wall.
Orange light punctured the darkness, but his sleepy eyes caught only a blur of it. He blinked, several times, his vision clearing to reveal a tall, well-built man holding an oil lamp, the excited flame illuminating his face in a dance of shadows – a face he did not recognise.
“Who are you?” Edward demanded.
The man placed the oil lamp on Edward’s writing table and replied, “Where is the book?”
Dear Lord! Did he mean…?
Edward tried to conceal a reactionary swallow. He felt a tingling in his cheeks and around his eyes. He said nothing, and the man just stared at him.
“I have just about had enough of this.” Edward threw off his covers and swung out of bed wearing just his shirt and braies.
The intruder charged forwards to block his path and Edward saw the glint of the small, black-handled dagger in his other hand.
Edward slid back onto the bed, backing against his gold-plated headboard.
“Move again and I’ll kill you.” The man’s voice was gruff and firm. “Tell me where the book is – now.”
Despite a painful heat in his chest, Edward remained outwardly calm. “To which book are you referring? There are many.”
The intruder’s glare deepened. He inched forwards, arching over the bed and pointing his dagger at Edward’s face. “Don’t, Your Grace. I’ve had enough. I just need to…” As his words faded, his features loosened and Edward saw a deep anguish and despair in his eyes.
It was only for a moment, though. The intruder cast aside his suffering with a flick of the head, a furious grimace re-forming. “You know what book I’m talking about. The History of Computer-Aided Timetabling for Railway Systems. By Jeremy Jennings.”
Edward knew it. He knew they would come for it eventually. But even as there was a blade just inches from his eyes, he wasn’t going to give in. “I don’t understand what that means, so I am afraid I cannot help you.”
“You’re lying.”
“I cannot tell you what I do not know.”
“Stop… lying!” In an instant, the intruder’s voice was like a great tree splitting in two, scraping the walls. He screamed so loud he made himself choke. Coughing, he stumbled against the wall.
A chance to escape. Though Edward wasn’t as nimble as he used to be, a fire at the pit of his belly propelled him. He dived forwards, scrambling across the bed.
The intruder’s coughing ceased immediately and Edward knew that his escape was not to be. He felt an iron grip on his shoulder and a powerful force yank him backwards. He fell against the headboard, cracking his head. For a moment it was like the back of his head was on fire, then the trickle of warm blood was on his neck.
The next thing he knew, the intruder was virtually on top of him on the bed, restraining him, and Edward’s throat met the cold bite of his blade.
The intruder spoke with a strained voice, face red and twisted with what looked like both fury and pain, “If you don’t tell me where the book is right now, I’ll take your fucking head clean off.”
Edward’s heart raced. His neck stung as the blade pressed deeper and harder, and he could feel the blood struggling to squeeze past it. Any moment now and it would penetrate his flesh; that blood would come spilling out. Expecting to die, he spoke his last words as coolly as he could, “I will not help you.”
“Fucking tell me!” The furious scream caused the intruder’s fragile voice to shatter in another guttural cough. He doubled over, falling to the side of Edward’s bed, the dagger with him. Edward’s hands were immediately on his throat, checking that the skin wasn’t broken. It hurt, but nothing ran warm over his fingers – his neck was intact.
Hacking and convulsing, the man toppled against the wall, knocking a portrait of Edward’s sons.
His choking went on longer this time, and Edward seized the moment, diving to the other side of the bed and leaping off, unhooking his longsword from the wall and returning quickly to where the intruder was bent over coughing.
Wasting no time, Edward impaled the man in the back, penetrating through his chest. It was like slicing into a soft fruit. The man’s coughs stuck instantly in his throat and his body shook, making the hilt of the blade tremble in Edward’s hand. The dagger fell from the man’s hand, hitting the wood floor with a small clunk.
Edward withdrew the sword. The intruder collapsed, turning as he fell, landing with his back partially propped up against the wall. Within seconds there was blood everywhere, dripping from the point of Edward’s sword onto one of the ornate golden rugs that dressed the wood floor, seeping from the man’s back and chest, forming an expanding puddle around him, escaping into grooves and cracks in the planks, and spreading around and underneath Edward’s bed, chasing the gentle slope in the floor.
Edward had killed men before. But it had always been in battle. Fast. Mad. Busy. No time to dwell on it, normally because he had to turn his attention to the next man who was attacking him.
Right now, it was just Edward, the intruder and God. The air was still, no low winds rustling the trees or whistling through the eaves. Even the insects were quiet tonight. And as Edward stood there, he found himself oddly transfixed by the rippling red flow draining from the man.
He wasn’t quite dead. Slumped against the wall, gargling and spitting blood, he reached stiffly inside the green cloak he was wearing over his tunic. Edward watched, sword poised in case he was about to draw another weapon.
“I… I have to…” the man choked out.
Instead of a weapon he took out a small pot. Edward watched him breathlessly remove the lid, pluck a tiny red object – a stone or some odd kind of pill – from inside and lift it to his mouth.
“Have to… have to save them…”
His eyes went blank, just before the thing touched his tongue. His hand dropped away from his mouth and fell limp at his side, and the little pill rolled onto the floor. His chin flopped against his chest.
Edward had barely a chance to process what
had happened before the dead silence of the room gave way to an unusual and tuneful melody coming from the intruder’s body.
Edward investigated, following the sound to a pocket in the inner lining of the man’s cloak, probably the same one he’d taken the pot of pills from. Edward thrust his hand in the pocket and took out a slim rectangular object.
Lord have mercy.
The curious melody was emanating, somehow, from the object, which was trembling as though it was alive. On its flat, shiny face was an array of colourful shapes, symbols, lines and words Edward couldn’t understand. He went to touch it but hesitated out of fear. It took a moment for his kingly courage to return and push his finger against one of the larger shapes, a green circle with a bone-like symbol inside it. The melody and trembling stopped, and a transcendent magic compelled all the words, shapes and symbols to fly about the surface of the object in a dizzying display. He closed his eyes – tight. Was he losing his mind? Possibly. He opened his eyes a crack and saw that the words and shapes had rearranged themselves.
Then a tiny voice started speaking. Edward brought the object closer to his ear so he could hear.
“Skinner?” A woman’s voice.
What did Skinner mean? Unsure what was happening or how to respond, Edward just listened silently.
After a short silence, the same mysterious woman spoke again, “Mr Skinner! What the hell are you doing?”
Despite the vulgarity of her language, it was a good question – what was he doing?
“What sorcery is this?” Edward said finally. He knew these people had powers beyond his comprehension, but it was worth trying for an explanation.
“What? Who is this?” the woman asked.
He saw no reason to hold back his name. “You are speaking with King Edward IV of England. What is your name, madam?”
There was a loud thud, then the woman cried, “Jesus!”
A heinous lie. Edward flared, “You dare to impersonate our Lord Jesus Christ? You must be one of Satan’s apostates.”
The woman confessed, “Yes. That’s right. I am. And I have great power, too. So I suggest you do as I say or I will release a plague of…” She paused for a flicker of a moment, then said, “… cats upon you.”