Hope for the Best

by Jodi Taylor

  He nodded and I set off down the cart track. The ruts were very deep and hard. There hadn’t been any rain for quite a while. I had to watch where I put my feet. Turning an ankle now would not be a good idea.

  Insects buzzed around me – there seemed to be a lot of bees about, and there were a lot of flowers as well, growing wild in the long grass. I assumed there must be hives nearby. A tall brick wall ran parallel to the track. I was hoping this might be the garden wall and on the other side Mary Tudor might – just might – be taking a peaceful stroll while her harassed and probably grateful hosts got everything sorted in her absence.

  A thick hedge ran down the other side of the track which could be useful if I had to hide. The grass was at knee height so I was guessing that apart from farm traffic, no one ever used this path. I hoped.

  I rounded a bend and the track opened up into an equally rutted farmyard. They must be up to their knees in mud in the winter. Dilapidated buildings lay haphazardly around. I was surprised at their smallness but, of course, there was no large agricultural machinery to house in this time. Apart from a barn, most of the wooden sheds were little higher than a man.

  A part-stone, part-timber building stood slightly apart and I guessed that must be the farmhouse, but architecturally it was only a tiny step up from the outhouses.

  Best of all, though, everything was deserted on this hot afternoon. Not a soul in sight anywhere. No smoke drifted from the chimneys. There wasn’t even a barking dog to give warning. I wondered if they were all in the fields. Or had they bunked off to catch a glimpse of Lady Mary? Not important right now. Because best of all, there was a gate in the wall. A back gate into the property.

  I scooted over and tried the handle. This could be easier than I thought. History was with me.

  No, it wasn’t. The bloody thing was locked. Bloody bollocking hell.

  I sighed. I’m St Mary’s. This sort of thing isn’t supposed to dismay me. I stepped back and looked up at the wall. It was in goodish repair. A few bricks looked a bit dodgy and a lot of the mortar was loose. But it was covered in ivy. I seized a thick stem.

  In books people are always scrambling up ivy-covered walls. They do it all the time. You try it. In real life, the ivy comes away from the wall and you land on your arse. I was really glad there weren’t any Time Police around. Pick yourself up, Maxwell, and try again.

  This time I ignored the ivy and concentrated on the bricks. None were actually missing, but one or two were loose. I chipped away with a small rock as tiny pieces of mortar pinged painfully at my hands and face and then had another go.

  It wasn’t graceful. It certainly wasn’t elegant. And I had to tuck my dress into my anomalous knickers. I couldn’t help thinking this was probably not the best way to approach a Tudor princess but I scrambled up somehow, skinning fingers and knees, until I could peer cautiously over the top of the wall.

  I’d misjudged. This wasn’t a pleasure garden. I was looking into an orchard. Trees stood in neat rows. I could see apples, pears and plums and, in a corner, a giant mulberry tree that was preparing to shed its dark fruit everywhere.

  Half a dozen wooden beehives stood in another corner. So I’d been right about that. One or two bees buzzed around my head. I refrained from flapping my arms and politely requested them to leave me alone because I’ve heard that bees respond positively to that sort of thing. Don’t ask me where I get all this information from when I don’t even know who the current prime minister is but, in my defence, the thing about bees is important and the thing about the prime minister definitely isn’t.

  Over on the opposite wall another gate might give me access to the private gardens and, with luck, my strolling princess.

  Getting down the wall was a piece of piss because gravity took over and I landed in a bit of a heap at the bottom. I picked myself up, pulled my dress out of my knickers, dusted myself down, and looked around. Apart from some very sleepy bees, the orchard was deserted.

  I was just about to set off for the door in the other wall when it opened of its own accord. I only just had time to duck down behind the hives. The bees didn’t seem to mind. Politeness pays.

  History hadn’t abandoned me after all, for which I was very grateful, because it was Mary Tudor walking into the orchard. And she closed the gate behind her which I took to be a signal she was alone and wanted to remain that way.

  Once, when I’d done something like this before, there was a moment when everything fell into place. When – and forgive the fanciful exaggeration – History was working with me instead of against me. Doors opened that shouldn’t have. Opportunities arose out of nowhere. I even managed to escape more or less unscathed. This might be another of those times. When, suddenly, everything comes together with no striving, no effort, no grief, and you just know – this is it. Everything falls into place and you can fly.

  12

  I didn’t make the mistake of rushing over to speak to her. No matter how pushed we were for time, running up to an apparently unescorted, apparently unarmed Tudor princess would never be a good move. Alone she might appear to be, but there were bound to be attendants nearby. I had to make sure she didn’t call them.

  I retreated quietly back behind the hives. An old wooden box sat half hidden in the long grass. I used it to sit on while I considered my strategy.

  And then I had another thought, stood up and opened the box. Yes! Among all the other rubbish I found a wide-brimmed hat and a veil. They’d been in the box a long time and were dirty, torn and probably forgotten, but just what I wanted.

  I put on the hat and draped the veil over the top. As bee protection, the veil had more holes in it than a political party’s election manifesto, but as camouflage it was perfect.

  Mary had seated herself on an old bench at the other end of the orchard. I rather thought she might be praying.

  I became amazingly busy doing nothing. Anyone who, at half past three on a Friday afternoon, has decided they really can’t be arsed to do any more work will be familiar with my actions.

  There were all sorts of old tat tucked behind the hives. I had the wooden box, a dilapidated old wicker basket, some sort of broken rake, and some old terracotta pots. I began by picking everything up and diligently moving it from one side of the hives to the other.

  Then I picked up half of them and moved them back again. Never once did I look at her directly.

  Ambitiously, I fiddled with the nearest hive but the humming increased alarmingly so I packed that in pretty sharply.

  Finally, after about ten minutes of useless activity, when I judged she might be used to my presence, I picked up the wicker basket and began to move around the trees, picking up the small windfalls. God knows what I thought I was going to do with them. Feed them to the bees, probably. I think bees like apples. Everyone likes apples.

  I lifted the veil up over my hat so she could see my face and slowly and aimlessly worked my way towards the still figure sitting on the bench.

  I was surprised at how pretty she was. Much prettier than the Antonis Mor portrait. Never mind burning Protestants – she’d have been better off burning the artist. Perhaps being queen would age her. Or being married would age her. It had certainly aged me.

  Her hair had faded to an indeterminate light colour but still had streaks of red in it. She was very pale – naturally so, I thought, with long dark eyes. She had a small mouth with deep creases at the corners. As if she was continually pressing her lips together. Keeping secrets. Holding her tongue. Unusually for this age, her complexion was clear and she had small, plump, pretty hands. Antonis Mor really hadn’t done her any favours at all.

  She hadn’t even changed her dress. I could clearly see roadside dust clinging to the folds of brown velvet. Now, however, she wore a large pectoral cross, simply made. She’d come to pray. Which could present a problem. Not because I’m a godless heathen, but because she wouldn’t
take kindly to being disturbed. But I had to take a chance. Time was short and I was certain she wouldn’t be allowed to remain alone for long. And, as I continually tried not to remind myself, this universe could roll up and disappear at any moment.

  I was putting it off. I’d forgotten how heart-stoppingly terrifying this sort of thing is. I swallowed, heaved my basket on my arm and approached her from an angle. She could see me coming. I was quiet but not stealthy.

  Unsure whether to bow or kneel, I did neither. I sat, unthreateningly, under a tree, about ten feet away from her. She was between me and the gate. I took another quick look around but we were alone.

  I didn’t know how to address her, either. Edward was dead or nearly so. She might already be queen but if I said, ‘Your Grace,’ she might well suspect entrapment. I couldn’t remember whether, at this point in her complicated life, she was Princess Mary or only the Lady Mary so I compromised, saying softly, and in Latin, ‘Madam, heed my words.’ And waited. If she screamed or raised the alarm then I’d be off and over the wall and into the woods. On the other hand, I was willing to bet she had a dagger among all that brown velvet. She might well do for me herself. She was a Tudor after all. Something Northumberland – who had casually dismissed her as a weak old woman – was about to find out, I hoped.

  Because this was Mary Tudor, born into and brought up in the most dangerous court in the world; she was far too wily to commit herself in any way. She remained perfectly still. I suspected that was so she could claim afterwards she hadn’t heard me. Or had been asleep.

  I started to take the tiny apples out of the basket and lay them in a neat row on the grass. ‘Madam, you must heed my words. Do not travel to London.’

  Again, I waited and again she said and did nothing.

  ‘Madam, Northumberland has despatched his son to intercept you. You will never arrive in London.’

  I started on a new row of apples. ‘Beware of poison.’

  ‘Guildford?’ Her voice was just a whisper on the wind.

  ‘Robert, madam. You must avoid him.’ And remembered, too late, that dreadful things happened to men who used the word ‘must’ to her sister, Elizabeth. I had to walk a fine line between not sending her screaming for help or getting a knife in the ribs. Not for the first time – or even the thirty-first time – I thought about an office job.

  The afternoon continued hot and silent. There was no breeze in this still place. The only sound was the faint humming of the bees. Another minute slipped by. I tried not to stir impatiently.

  She was still cautious. ‘My brother the king? How does my brother?’

  I looked up at the afternoon sun. Edward might be dead by now. I didn’t know. She didn’t know. No one knew. Northumberland was suppressing the news while he moved his people into position.

  I took a chance. ‘Madam, His Grace is with a merciful God.’

  Her face didn’t change but I saw her knuckles whiten. ‘The king has summoned me.’

  ‘Madam, the king is dead.’

  ‘But we have heard nothing. There has been no message. The bells do not toll.’ A gentle wind stirred the leaves. ‘I must go to London.’

  ‘Madam, you will never reach London alive.’

  ‘The king has summoned me.’

  ‘The king is dead.’

  She said nothing. To discuss the death or possible death of a monarch was treason. I expected her to say nothing but she clutched her cross and closed her eyes. I didn’t know whether she was praying for her brother or for herself. I waited, forcing myself not to speak. Surely, we wouldn’t have much longer in this quiet place. Her household would be coming for her soon but I had to be sure she understood.

  I started another row of apples.

  ‘Madam, you are the rightful Queen of England. The message I have for you is that you should write to the Privy Council with all speed.’

  ‘From whom does this message come.’

  ‘From your many friends, madam. Those who have not forgotten whose daughter you are. Your throne is slipping from your grasp.’ I swallowed. ‘You must assert your right. You are in the gravest danger.’

  She was silent for a long while. I could feel the sweat running down my back and prickling under my hair. One by one, I began to put the apples back in the basket. She was deeply suspicious. She didn’t believe me and why should she? Some oddly dressed woman who had appeared from nowhere and started messing around with apples? I wouldn’t have believed me.

  I made one last effort. ‘Madam, you will hear this news again. Robert Reyns awaits you at Euston Hall. Lady Burgh also will tell you. I speak truly and from the heart. God has put me in your path today. Heed my words.’

  I stood up to go.

  ‘Wait. What of Elizabeth?’

  Now that was interesting. Rivalry for the crown had not yet sundered these two sisters. There was genuine concern in her voice. They had been good friends once.

  ‘Madam, her life hangs with yours. If you die then so will she. They will be too afraid to keep her alive. If you live then so will she. They will be too afraid to kill her. You hold both your lives in your hand. Avoid London if you would live. Now I must go.’

  I left the basket and the apples by the tree and backed away to the far end of the orchard. To the corner where I’d come in.

  There was ivy on this side, too. Pulling off the hat and veil and chucking it behind the hives, I scrambled up, finding holes in the brickwork to put my feet. Another load of ivy came away as I did so, but there was nothing I could do about that. I pulled myself up and sat astride the wall for a dangerous moment, looking back.

  She was on her knees, clasping her cross in both hands, praying. What she was praying for I had no idea. Was she seeking guidance? Giving thanks? Praying for her dead brother? Not a clue. A bit of an enigma, our Mary Tudor. A shame. I would have liked to have known her better.

  I more or less fell off the wall again, landing with a bump on the farmyard side. Fortunately, there was still no one there and the farmyard dreamed softly in the heat haze. I took a hasty look around and then trotted off back up the cart track.

  I was hot and bothered when I arrived back. Ellis and the others were resting under a tree. The two TWOC’d horses grazed peacefully nearby.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ I said, dropping to the ground beside them.

  They passed me some Tudor water which I would probably regret later on. I drank deeply, mopped the sweat off my face and adjusted my tea towel.

  ‘Well?’ said Ellis. ‘What happened? Did you see her?’

  ‘I did,’ and gave them the details. I nodded towards Bevan and Nash. ‘If she believes me she’ll write to the Privy Council. You’ll need to be ready to move at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘If she writes the letter,’ said Ellis.

  ‘If she writes the letter,’ I agreed.

  The minutes ticked by.

  An hour passed.

  Nothing happened. No one galloped out through the gates with an important letter for the Privy Council. I tried not to panic but, deep down, I was convinced I’d failed.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Ellis, trying to reassure me. ‘It’s still only late afternoon. It’s midsummer – the days are long. There’s plenty of time for her to despatch a messenger.’

  I shook my head despondently. Even allowing for her prayers, she’d had plenty of time to return to the house, gather her thoughts, compose her letter, seal it, summon a messenger and send it off. More than enough time. She hadn’t believed me. We were going to have to think of something else.

  I said to Ellis, ‘Do we have a plan B?’

  He shook his head.

  That was a bit of a bugger. And we couldn’t come back. There are no do-overs in History. If we screwed this then everything was screwed. And – more to the point – how much longer could we remain here? And Clerk and the clean-
up team? What was happening to Wyatt’s Rebellion? If we failed then so would they. They could hardly instigate a rebellion against a Catholic monarch who’d never made it to the throne. And if they failed then we failed because Jane Grey wouldn’t be executed. The whole thing just went around and around in my head until I was dizzy. Either way, we didn’t have much more time. What was happening to the fabric of the 16th century? If it all suddenly disappeared, would we ever know anything about it? Would we miraculously appear somewhere else? Probably not. When this particular bubble burst, we’d go with it.

  I took off my tea towel to let my hot head get some air before my brain exploded.

  Nash sat up suddenly. ‘There.’

  Something was happening. They were opening the gates. Two riders flew out between them before they were even half open, wheeled sharply and disappeared down the road in a cloud of dust.

  ‘You’re up,’ said Ellis to his men, but they were already swinging themselves on to their horses.

  ‘Nothing must happen to that letter,’ I said, still in the throes of near terminal anxiety.

  ‘It won’t,’ said Bevan. ‘Get out of the way, Max.’

  I leaped aside and they cantered away after the riders. We watched them out of sight.

  And then – amazingly – out of the blue – another thunder of hooves behind us. I spun around. My first thought was that Dudley’s men were here already, pursuing the letter.

  I was wrong.

  It was a good job Ellis was there because I was too busy gawping like an idiot to get out of the way. He yanked me to the side of the road. I caught a confused glimpse of six big brown horses and their riders. The first two were well-dressed and heavily armed. They wore swords. The one nearest to me had a pistol in his belt and a dagger in his boot.

  The last two were ordinary soldiers. The muscle.

  The two in the middle were women. Mary Tudor, hooded and cloaked, thundered past me, her face white and set. Her cloak billowed behind her. She wore a long knife at her belt. Beside her, a younger woman was similarly armed.