by Jodi Taylor
Two separate legends surround his birth and death. The first says that his father, under some pressure to appoint a Welsh-speaking Prince of Wales to replace the one he’d recently killed, interpreted ‘Welsh speaking’ as ‘non-English speaking’, promised the people of Caernarfon a prince ‘that was borne in Wales and could never speake a word of English’, and dangled the newly born Edward of Caernarfon from the Queen’s Tower.
There’s no record of how this was received. Indeed, it’s not likely it happened at all – not only was the Queen’s Tower not built at the time, but Edward of Caernarfon wasn’t even his father’s eldest son. The story is persistent, however, and I’d always wanted to check it out.
The other, equally famous legend relates to his murder. Having failed to live up to the expectations of the people of Caernarfon in particular and Wales in general, Edward went on to fail, spectacularly, to live up to the expectations of anyone at all, managing to piss off not only his wife, but also nearly everyone in the realm, and was eventually confined in Berkeley Castle. The conditions of his imprisonment were brutal. Confined in a pit full of rotting corpses in the hope it would kill him, he once again failed to fulfil people’s expectations and refused to die. The official version is that he starved to death. The more colourful version states that a group of men crept into his cell one night, pinned him down, shoved a red-hot poker up his bum, and kept it there until he died. No one has yet ascertained the truth of this one, either.
That was the point of this assignment. This is what St Mary’s does. We record, document, and ensure that somewhere there’s a truthful account of what actually did occur.
But not for me. Another missed opportunity. All right, when they returned from Caernarfon I would know whether or not the story was true, but that would not be anything like as good as seeing it for myself.
I cursed. And then threw my pen across the room. Dr Bairstow had known what he was doing when he ordered me to stay at St Mary’s. The knowledge that people were going off without me … that my department was functioning without me … Sorry, I don’t mean to sound like a bighead – I’m sure things probably functioned slightly better when I wasn’t around, but that wasn’t the point. My stapler followed the pen, burst apart and scattered staples everywhere.
The next day, the day of the Caernarfon jump, I stayed out of the way keeping busy. I reordered my files, cleaned out my drawers, fixed my stapler, dusted my desk, sorted my in-tray, watched the hands inch their way around the clock face, and went off for an early lunch.
There weren’t many people in the dining room. Guthrie and Leon were still away. I was still annoyed that Leon hadn’t said anything to me about that, but perhaps he thought it was a sensitive subject. Most of the History and Security Departments were in Caernarfon. There was none of the noisy chatter I’d grown accustomed to. St Mary’s was a pretty dreary place these days.
The crash rocked the building.
I could hear crockery falling in the kitchen and voices raised everywhere. The alarms went off. I could hear footsteps running.
I knew what this was. Someone had called for emergency extraction. Something had gone horribly wrong with the Caernarfon assignment and this was a pod crash-landing in Hawking.
Pregnant or not, I was down the long corridor like a whippet, dodging lumps of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. I skidded into Hawking, expecting the worst. Emergency extractions are quick, but they’re not painless. That’s why they’re for emergencies only. I’ve had a few in my time and they leave their mark. Literally in some cases. Pods can materialise several feet above their plinths and believe me, a pod has the aerodynamic properties of an elephant in an iron tutu. Or they miss the plinth altogether and skid off down the hangar floor with techies having to leap for their lives. They flatten everything in their path – we’ve lost several flatbeds that way – and leave smoking grooves in the floor. Leon gets very annoyed about that.
Number Five, however, did not appear to have fared too badly. It was half on and half off its plinth, tilted at a precarious angle, but most importantly, I could see the door, which meant we could get in to deal with any casualties.
I looked around for the person taking charge.
Dieter was shouting instructions. Someone would be calling for the medical team. Nothing was on fire. No one was trapped under the pod with just their feet sticking out like the Wicked Witch of the East – something I knew the Technical Section was running bets on happening one day. As emergency extractions went, this one seemed quite calm. I stood quietly at the back, hoping no one would notice me since I wasn’t supposed to be here, and waited to find out what had gone wrong.
The medical team crashed through the doors and approached the pod at a trot, slowing as the pod door jerked open of its own accord, so at least one person was conscious and functioning.
Halcombe appeared, jumping awkwardly through the door, followed by Clerk and Atherton, helping Prentiss and North. North was cradling her arm and cursing buckets. Ten centuries ago, her ancestors had hunted peasants for sport and their voices had evolved to be heard over hounds, horses and horns. She had no difficulty carrying on that proud tradition. Her injury wasn’t severe enough to impede her fluency and her voice echoed around the concrete cavern that was Hawking.
Normally, she really, really gets on my nerves, but for some reason, today – not so much. Perhaps because the voice was directed at someone else, namely the idiot Halcombe, who was standing around trying to pretend he couldn’t hear her cut-glass tones casting aspersions on his legitimacy. She’s usually quite a restrained girl; not today however. And knowing how she could be when things didn’t go her way, I waited hopefully for her to attack him.
She wasn’t the only one – Clerk, usually one of the most good-natured people on the planet, was shouting and waving his arms, red with fury. Prentiss was joining in, the two of them shoulder to shoulder and in Halcombe’s face. He made several efforts to get past them but they wouldn’t let him through. The noise was tremendous: everyone was having a go at him, including the security team just now climbing out.
The medical team clambered into the pod, presumably to deal with the casualties therein, and seconds later, clambered back out again looking bewildered.
No one else emerged from the pod. I counted on my fingers – three people missing. Bashford and Sykes. And Dottle. Where the hell were they?
Clerk and the security team were making furious gestures and Halcombe was standing like a pillar of salt. No one seemed to be taking charge. I had no idea what was going on – why they’d called for emergency extraction. I didn’t even know if they’d decontaminated. I looked around, but Dieter’s responsibility was inside the pod, shutting things down and making them safe.
I walked slowly down the hangar, taking my time. I think I hoped that by the time I got there, things would, miraculously, have resolved themselves. They hadn’t, of course. Sometimes I think the god of historians needs a good slapping.
Seeing me, Clerk, still red-faced and furious, broke off. I noted, with surprise, that Prentiss had tears of rage standing on her cheeks. Someone needed to calm things down.
The trick is not to shout. Everyone else was doing that. There was no point in me joining in as well. I said quietly, ‘Mr Clerk, report.’
Halcombe opened his mouth, presumably to tell me to push off, and North, suddenly, wheeled on him, scrunched up the front of his tunic with her good hand and pushed him hard. In the silence, we all heard the thump as his head connected with the side of the pod.
‘You,’ she hissed, ‘will be silent.’
He knocked her hand away.
I took a deep breath, pitched my voice, and said, ‘Enough!’
Silence rang like a bell.
‘Mr Clerk, report.’
‘We have to go back, Max. He left them. This bastard ordered us to leave them.’
‘Who?’
‘Dottle, Bashford, and Sykes.’
‘Were they injured? Tra
pped? Unable to get to the pod?’
‘No,’ said North, and contempt dripped from every syllable. ‘This gutless, spineless, contemptible, despicable poltroon not only ran away, but he ordered us to do the same.’
‘Why?’ The word snapped out and echoed around the now silent hangar.
She turned back to Halcombe. ‘Ask him. Ask him why he abandoned three people. Ask him …’ She drew breath to have another go at him.
I lifted my hand and said quietly, ‘One moment please, Miss North. Allow Mr Halcombe to respond.’
He drew himself up. His reedy little voice wasn’t quite steady. Was he a coward who shied away from actual confrontation? I could use that.
Swallowing, he said, ‘I judged the situation to be unsafe and ordered a withdrawal. My orders were blatantly ignored, so I ordered emergency extraction.
I looked at Clerk.
‘He overrode my orders, Max.’
‘How? How could he do that? You were mission controller.’
He took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps you don’t know, all the pods have been reprogrammed, giving Halcombe the authority to override.’
I couldn’t believe such stupidity.
‘Are you telling me that historians are no longer in control of each assignment? That their orders can be overridden by a …?’ I dragged in a huge breath, willing myself to stay calm. ‘We’re St Mary’s – we never leave our people behind.’
‘Not any longer,’ said Clerk, grimly. ‘Under this idiot’s regime, it would appear we are now just the sort of organisation that leaves their people behind.’
All eyes turned to Halcombe, who pursed his mouth and said primly, ‘The situation was becoming dangerous. I had other lives to consider.’
I lost it. Weeks of frustration poured out of me in a torrent. I didn’t shout but somehow my words carried to every corner of Hawking. ‘Becoming dangerous? Becoming dangerous? You useless pillock. You don’t even know the meaning of the word ‘dangerous’. Where are your critical injuries? Where’s the damage to the pod? Where’s the fire? You abandoned St Mary’s personnel simply because you thought the situation might become dangerous? Where do you keep your brains? In the same place as your balls?’
‘How dare you speak to me in that manner? You will leave this unit immediately.’
After this effort to retrieve the situation, he tried unsuccessfully to push past us and get away.
No. I wouldn’t be caught like that again. This had happened to me before. I was younger then and I’d meekly allowed myself to be shepherded from the building, while four men were left to die in the Cretaceous. But not this time. There’s no point in making mistakes if you don’t learn from them.
Now, everyone was looking at me. Dieter, for some reason, was still inside the pod. Technically, I wasn’t a member of this unit any longer, but on the other hand, when the dust settled, everyone would be able to blame me.
Without turning my head, I said, ‘Mr Atherton, my compliments to Dr Peterson, and could he join us at his earliest convenience.’
He looked over my shoulder. ‘No need, Max.’
Peterson was striding down the hangar. People fell back to make room for him. He was amazing. He didn’t raise his voice. Ignoring Halcombe as if he didn’t exist, he looked around him and then quietly enquired what was going on.
I filled him in.
He turned to Halcombe and said, with no inflection in his voice. ‘You left them behind.’
It was a statement, not an accusation, but Halcombe immediately began to bluster. ‘I had no choice. The situation was hazardous. I judged it necessary to implement immediate withdrawal. Mr Clerk refused to obey my commands and I therefore initiated emergency evacuation.’
Which reminded me I had a bone to pick with the Chief Technical Officer whose section had presumably implemented this particular override, but that was for later. Deal with the current crisis first. Always deal with the now, and the first priority was rescue. Getting our people out. Except … we had no senior officers to authorise that rescue.
Then … finally … the penny dropped. I stepped aside and had a bit of a think because suddenly I thought I knew why Dr Bairstow wasn’t here. Or Leon. Or Guthrie. Or anyone who could take charge of this situation. Dr Bairstow wasn’t director of St Mary’s by accident. He was director because he was cunning and crafty and devious, yes; but mostly he was director because he saw further than most.
When Thirsk had discovered what we had done, they would immediately have informed Dr Bairstow of our transgression. It had taken us hours to get to back to Caer Guorthigirn and replace the sword and he would have used that time wisely. I could imagine him sitting behind his desk as the shadows moved across the room, plotting, planning – six moves ahead of everyone else as usual. Turning a disaster into an opportunity.
He’d been fighting off Thirsk and their attempts to establish a presence here for years. I could see him now, pulling all the threads together into one neat little package that would teach me a well-deserved lesson, give Peterson the opportunity to step from his, Dr Bairstow’s, shadow, and expose Thirsk’s representative for the idiot he was.
But what a risk. To take his senior staff and leave St Mary’s alone and exposed to the idiot Halcombe, whom he must have known would, when push came to shove, have balls of butter.
Or was it? I was here. And Peterson. And Markham. The sudden knowledge that despite everything we had done, he still believed we could handle this between us, was like the sun coming out in my heart. Now I knew why he’d kept me at St Mary’s. I might have no idea what my future held, but my present duty was certain.
I turned to Peterson, cutting across Halcombe, who was trying to issue instructions to clear the hangar. No one was listening to him. St Mary’s had closed ranks. I took a moment to steady myself. Because this was the moment on which everything would pivot. This was the moment that would decide our future. Everyone was looking at me.
I said slowly and deliberately, ‘Dr Peterson, sir. What are your instructions?’
He didn’t get it for a moment – and then he did. Suddenly, in a way I couldn’t define, he was different. Markham, standing at the back and watching very carefully, nodded at me.
It was as if the last weeks had never happened. The entire unit lifted their heads and looked to him for guidance.
He was surveying our resources, which were slim. Grey was still at Thirsk. Clerk, Atherton and Prentiss couldn’t go back. You can’t visit the same time twice. Ditto the security team. North was injured anyway.
That left me.
‘And me,’ said Markham, reading my mind.
Not for the first time I wished I had Sands and Roberts back. I did briefly consider sending for them. They could be here in a few hours, especially Sands, but with Halcombe on the premises, time was of the essence. I had to get this rescue organised and executed before he or anyone else from Thirsk could intervene and veto. Who else could I use?
There was a disturbance in the Force, and Miss Lingoss was suddenly with us. Complete with jet-black, blue and purple hair teased up on high and welded into place, defying gravity.
‘I’d like to volunteer.’
She’d been a trainee historian once and, at that moment, if it would serve my needs, I would have conscripted Vortigern, the kitchen cat.
‘Thank you, Miss Lingoss. Your offer is gratefully accepted.’
Peterson turned to us. ‘Get yourselves kitted out. I’ll find you more security back-up. Back here in ten. You can take Number Three. My authority.’
He wasn’t coming with us. Dr Bairstow rarely went on assignment. As director, he was too valuable to risk. Peterson had just made the jump from historian to director. I would miss him, but I was proud of him. Plus, of course – we’d need someone to watch our backs while we were gone.
He and Markham set off for Security.
Halcombe made the mistake of shouting to his back. ‘You have no authority here. I shall report this.’
He wou
ld, too. I racked my brains for a reason to keep him in Hawking, at least until I could get a rescue organised. I caught Helen’s eye. She nodded and despite his protests, began to run a portable scanner over him.
I signalled to Clerk. ‘Walk with me to Wardrobe please, Mr Clerk. You can brief me on the way.’
We trotted down the long corridor towards Wardrobe.
‘So, Mr Clerk – what happened?’
‘Well, there were crowds everywhere. All heading towards the castle.’ The historian in him took over. ‘Records say the baby prince was presented from the Queen’s Tower, but it hadn’t been built at the time and …’
I touched his arm. ‘Another time, Mr Clerk. What happened to cause the idiot to call for emergency extraction?’
He was disgusted. ‘Hardly anything, Max. The bloke’s a complete girl’s blouse. As I said, crowds everywhere. He insisted on being at the front and of course, he hadn’t a clue. Some sort of beggar jostled him and he panicked. He jumped back shouting “Leper! Leper!” and then, of course, everyone else panicked as well.’
‘Lepers?’
‘Unlikely within the town walls but …’
‘Please tell me you decontaminated before you left the pod.’
‘Of course we did. Mary Jane Halcombe had us do it three times.’
‘Did you get a look at the beggar?’
‘I caught a quick glimpse, and she wasn’t a pretty sight, but she wasn’t dressed as a leper, or holding a bell or clapper, so I’m thinking it was just some sort of medieval skin complaint. Not uncommon.’
During the Middle Ages, lepers were compelled to dress in long tunics of russet, with black capes over, and a large yellow L or X prominently displayed. They carried bells or clappers to warn people of their presence and to attract charitable donations. The point being that they were easily recognisable. You didn’t think you might have seen a leper. You knew when you’d seen a leper. They weren’t usually allowed within town walls either, so Clerk was probably right and the woman was just a beggar, albeit one with an unpleasant skin condition. Psoriasis or eczema, maybe. Perhaps even skin cancer.