Lies, Damned Lies, and History

by Jodi Taylor

  We got busy. Markham and Dottle cleared things away; Tim and I calculated and laid in the coordinates.

  The world went white.

  We were back at St Marys, but still in 1216, and let me say now that the woods of 1216 are considerably less friendly than the woods of today. Peterson was angling the cameras, but the view everywhere was exactly the same. Dense, tangled undergrowth and thickly growing trees. So much for our carefully chosen clearing.

  And it was pissing down. The storm, so deadly in East Anglia, had mellowed to heavy rain here. Not that it mattered. We were still soaking wet.

  ‘What’s down there?’ asked Dottle, trying to angle the cameras. ‘Is there a St Mary’s?’

  ‘In 1216?’ I said, vaguely. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s even a priory yet. There might be a few huts but that’s it. And on a night like this, no one’s going to be out anyway. We’ll be fine,’ I added with typically misplaced confidence.

  It was a vile night. The storm here was considerably less severe than in East Anglia, but conditions weren’t pleasant at all. The rain lashed down. The wind was heaving the branches around. The primitive smell of wet earth and leaves hit me in the face and for one moment, I was back in the woods on the way to Arthur’s Cave. In the distance, I could hear barking – a warning for us to take care. I doubted whoever was living down there would venture out on a night like this, but there was no point in taking chances.

  ‘Are there wolves?’ said Dottle, looking about her in some alarm.

  Actually – that was a very good question. Yes, there were. Especially in this part of the country. John himself had offered a reward of ten shillings (a very great deal of money in 1216) for every two wolves killed and Edward I would order the complete extermination of all wolves in the counties bordering the Welsh Marches. Gerald of Wales wrote of how the wolves of Holywell devoured the corpses left in the wake of Henry II’s Welsh campaign. I really wished I hadn’t just remembered that.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘just village dogs,’ and refused to catch Peterson’s eye.

  We stood in the doorway and peered out into the dark woods.

  Markham was angling a soggy piece of paper. ‘Ten paces that way.’ He set off, forcing his way through the undergrowth. We followed, clutching spades, forks, and a pickaxe.

  ‘So where exactly do we put it?’

  He halted. ‘Any place we can get a bloody spade in the ground. Not you Max. I’m in enough trouble without having to explain to Leon why we turned his pregnant wife into a navvy. You’re the timekeeper and in charge of refreshments.’

  There was no arguing with him and actually, I didn’t want to. It was bloody hard work. They cleared the undergrowth first then Peterson hacked at the soil with the pickaxe and Markham dug. Occasionally they swapped over. Every now and then, Dottle had a go as well.

  The digging seemed to take forever. The rain lashed down the whole time, sometimes washing the soil back in faster than they could dig it out. The bottom of the hole was filled with muddy water. They slipped and slithered and dug and dug.

  ‘It’s going to need to be deep,’ said Peterson, stopping to wipe his face and rest his back. ‘As far as I know this woodland is undisturbed until the present day but pigs root for truffles, dogs bury things and then dig them up again for reasons which escape everyone, trees blow over in storms …’

  ‘Earthquakes … sea monsters …. Ice Ages …’ said a muffled voice. Markham was standing in a hole nearly as deep as he was.

  ‘So not that deep then,’ said Peterson, grinning at me.

  I leaned over to look and my foot slipped in the mud. I would have joined him if Peterson hadn’t grabbed me. ‘Steady on. We don’t want two of you in there. Markham’s the official depth marker.’

  ‘I have depth too, you know,’ I said indignantly, because I don’t like being useless.

  ‘No you don’t. Nor height. Plenty of width though. Is there any more tea?’

  ‘Yes, pull out the portable depth marker and all of you come inside and take a few minutes.’

  I can’t begin to describe the state of the interior. Mud. Muddy water. Discarded towels. Footprints. Handprints. Clods of earth from our boots. The smell of wet leaves and wet earth. I closed the door behind them, shutting out the wind, rain, and animals that might not be wolves. They gulped down their tea and flexed their aching shoulders.

  ‘How are we doing for time?’

  ‘Not so bad, and it’s going to be much easier filling in than digging out. Come on.’

  We huddled in the doorway looking out at the rain slanting through the torchlight. Something howled.

  ‘They sound very close,’ said Dottle, looking around nervously. ‘Are you sure they’re not wolves?

  ‘We’re not in a sleigh being chased through the snow, for God’s sake,’ said Peterson, and I didn’t think this was the moment to tell them about Gerald of Wales. ‘Max, can you keep an eye out?’

  I did. I took a torch and, as best I could in all the twisted undergrowth, patrolled a wide circle around them. At every moment, I expected to see glittering eyes in the undergrowth, but I couldn’t see a thing except wet bushes, darkly glistening tree trunks, and lashing rain. According to the sounds I was hearing, they were quite close. All around me. Whatever they were. Not wolves, I told myself firmly. A pack of feral dogs, probably, living in the wild wood. Because in 1216, all the woods were wild. Unmanaged. Thick. Tangled. The home of outlaws. And wolves. You met some nasty things in the wild wood. I picked up a handy piece of wood. Yes, and one of those nasty things was me.

  I forced my way back to the others. Peterson was just handing the carefully re-wrapped leather casket and bundle down to Markham, still standing in the bottom of what looked to me like an abyss.

  I shouted over the noise of the wind and rain. ‘How much longer?’

  ‘We just have to fill in the hole.’

  ‘Hey!’ shouted a disembodied voice.

  ‘And get Markham out, of course.’

  ‘Hey!’

  ‘Possibly the other way around.’

  I said quietly, ‘Tim, we should go as soon as possible.’

  ‘What’s the problem? Have you seen something?’

  ‘No. But I am hearing things.’

  He peered through the wind and rain. ‘Me too.’

  ‘And me,’ said the hole.

  I handed my branch to Dottle. ‘Back to the pod. Usual instructions.’

  She didn’t bother to argue. She was getting the hang of this. She set off, using the branch to widen the path.

  I said to Peterson, ‘What can you hear?’

  He shrugged. ‘I can hear a talking hole. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Let’s get him out. Quick as we can.’

  We heaved out the massive lump of mud formerly known as Markham and I stood, flashing the torch around and keeping watch.

  No need to tell them to hurry – they were heaving the soil back as fast as they could go, shovelling for dear life.

  I pushed my hair back off my face, wiped the rain out of my eyes, and willed myself to stay calm. My job was to keep them safe. Keep them safe while we implemented my stupid scheme that was supposed to get us all out of the trouble I’d got us into in the first place. I was going to say ‘get us out of the hole we’d dug for ourselves’, but suddenly it wasn’t the time for stupid jokes. Every hair on the back of my head was standing on end. A primal response to a primal predator. We had to get out of here and we had to get out of here now.

  With a huge effort, I refrained from telling them to hurry, because they were hurrying. They were shovelling the earth as fast as they could go. I could hear their breath coming in short pants. Peterson was stamping it down like a madman. All my instincts were telling me – screaming at me – to get out of there as fast as we could. Because something was coming. Something moved in the undergrowth. I flashed the torch and for a moment, eyes gleamed.

  ‘Done,’ panted Markham, pulling the undergrowth back to try
and disguise the raw earth.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Don’t run.’

  We formed the traditional St Mary’s clump, watching each other’s backs, and forced our way back towards the pod. I went first with the torch. Markham and Peterson backed along behind me. We tripped and stumbled our way through the wood. Behind and to one side, something glided with us. I didn’t dare flash the torch around. The pod was only paces away.

  The door was shut.

  ‘Shit,’ said Peterson. ‘Miss Dottle, could you open the door, please.’

  At the same time, I said, ‘Door.’

  The door, which had started to open, jerked closed.

  Something was behind us.

  I shouted, ‘Door,’ and again, the door opened fractionally and then closed again.

  This is what happens when you bring amateurs along. We were both trying to open the door at the same time. The first command opened the door and the second, given a fraction of a second later, was closing it again.

  Peterson opened his com. ‘Miss Dottle, leave the door alone.’

  I opened my mouth to say Door yet again and something hit me from behind. For a moment, I thought my last moment had come and waited for the smell of wet wolf, the yellow eyes in my face and the teeth at my throat, but it was Markham, shoving me against the side of the pod. He stood in front of me, clutching a tree branch. Something dark moved, uttering a low, liquid growl that lifted the hairs on my neck.

  I kicked the door and shouted, ‘Dottle, step back from the door. Don’t touch anything.’ I took a deep breath and said as calmly as I could, ‘Door.’

  The door slid open. I didn’t take any chances, shoving my hand in the gap to keep it open. Markham pushed Peterson first, and then me. We both fell through the door and I landed on Peterson, probably nearly crushing the life out of him.

  Markham threw his branch at whatever it was that was out there and followed us in. The door closed behind him.

  Peterson was threshing around. ‘Get off me, will you. I can’t breathe.’

  I lifted my head. ‘Listen sunshine. The number of times you’ve peed on me, the least you can do is let me use you as a landing strip occasionally.’

  Markham heaved me to my feet and we all stood, panting. Listening. Apart from our own breathing, the familiar faint hum, and a quiet click as a read-out changed, there was nothing.

  Dottle was in tears. ‘I’m sorry, I'm so sorry; I didn’t know what to do. I kept trying to open the door and it kept closing again. I kept hitting the door switch as you said, and it wasn’t working, and I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept hitting it and …’

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Peterson, wiping his face and getting his breath back. ‘We’re all safe and sound now. It’s OK.’

  We tried to tidy ourselves and the pod, but it was hopeless. Every towel was sodden and muddy. The floor was swimming. The locker doors, the console, everything was covered in muddy smears. The place stank. You can’t be washed away in some sort of storm surge, go on to dig a hole in a muddy wood while surrounded by hostile indigenous wildlife, and expect to look good at the end of it. We couldn’t even say we’d carried out the Great Jewel Heist of 1216 because King John had done that.

  ‘We were merely the jackals snapping at his heels,’ said Markham, earning himself no friends at all in a confined space.

  We did our best, however, smearing mud all over the few places that hadn’t previously looked like a swamp and then it was time to go. I think we would all have liked to put off that moment for as long as possible. We had no idea what we would be going back to, and we’d done the walk of shame once, but our time was up. We had to go.

  I did the business.

  The world went white.

  Obviously, we couldn’t keep this one quiet. For a start, there was the state of us when we got back. We looked as if we’d stood under the Victoria Falls for a week and then been involved in some sort of mudslide.

  Helen went ballistic – and not just with me this time. Everyone was exposed to her displeasure. It was good to see the load spread evenly for a change.

  Peterson had strained his bad arm and shoulder. He was confined to bed for the rest of his life. He looked exhausted and didn’t argue, which, I think, worried her more than anything. Markham physically was OK, but very quiet. Apparently, he didn’t even try to goose Hunter, which caused her some concern.

  I was in and out of the scanner all evening – when I wasn’t being yelled at. I protested I hadn’t actually done any digging, but no one took the slightest bit of notice.

  ‘Please,’ I said, eventually, just to shut them up. ‘I don’t feel very well. Can I go to bed?’

  Silence. Medical people converged on me like heat-seeking missiles.

  ‘What did you just say?’ said Helen.

  ‘I don’t feel very well. I’m cold. I’d like to have a bath and go to bed.’

  I was freezing cold. My head hurt. My chest hurt. I just wanted to sleep.

  I spent an hour up to my nose in a hot bath. When I came out, Dottle was fast asleep which was just as well, because I was much too tired to talk.

  And, if truth be told, more than a little scared about what was going to happen next.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dr Bairstow sent for me directly after breakfast. Dottle had been discharged. Peterson and Markham, exhausted, were still asleep. So, just me then. I thought about this as I made my way to his office.

  At least this time he instructed me to sit down.

  Everything was just as it had been. There was no sign of the recent Halcombe infestation. What was going on?

  He stared at me for a long time. I made myself stay calm and return his stare. I hadn’t actually been in his office since that day. Mrs Partridge sat behind him as she always did. She kept her eyes on her scratchpad. I was getting no clues from either of them.

  He kept it short. ‘Report.’

  I kept to the facts as I knew them. I said nothing about anonymous data stacks. I said nothing about stealing Leon’s pod. I’m not sure I even mentioned Peterson and Markham, although he must have known they’d been with me. Nothing about Dottle, either. I outlined the mission objective, described what had happened as unemotionally as I could, and ended with the burial in the woods. Then I shut up and, without actually saying so, gave him to understand the whole thing was now up to him.

  He stared at his desk for a while, then got up and limped to the window, looking out over the South Lawn. I stared at his back, oscillating between hope and fear. Finally, he heaved a sigh and came to sit back down again. We looked at each other.

  He said faintly, ‘The Sword of Tristram?’

  ‘We think so sir, yes.’

  ‘And possibly the crown of the Holy Roman Emperor?’

  ‘One of them, sir, yes.’ I said, not wanting to overstate things.

  ‘Buried in our woods.’

  ‘We certainly hope so.’

  ‘You noted the spot?’

  ‘We did, sir. All ready for you to inform Thirsk.’

  Silence did not so much fall as plummet. Taking my heart and hopes with it.

  He sat back in his chair. ‘No,’ he said firmly.

  I could hardly believe my ears. Had we done all this for nothing? Had I just made things worse? I swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry, sir – what?’

  ‘No.’

  I took a deep breath, sat forwards, and prepared to argue to the death. I had nothing to lose. If the worst came to the worst, I’d grab a spade from somewhere and, pregnant or not, go and dig the bloody stuff up myself. At least there wouldn’t be any wolves this time. ‘But sir …’

  ‘No,’ he said again. ‘Not Thirsk. They are not, at the moment, among my favourite people.’

  He had favourite people?

  Almost as if talking to himself, he continued. ‘They turned on us. They turned on their Chancellor. Setting aside your illegal actions, your improper use of a pod, your disobedience, your irresponsibility, and your thoughtles
s stupidity – subjects to which, do not doubt, we will frequently be returning – this will be an astounding find. More than astounding. We have, in the past, enabled them to make a number of spectacular discoveries which have considerably enhanced their prestige in the academic world. None of that could have been achieved without us and yet, at the first opportunity, they cut us adrift to fend for ourselves. And not just us, but the very able Chancellor whose foresight in backing St Mary’s has been instrumental in their success. I am not an unforgiving man,’ he added unconvincingly, ‘but on this occasion, I see no need to involve Thirsk in any way. We are perfectly capable of handling the discovery of these artefacts for ourselves.’

  ‘We tend not to preside over our own discoveries, sir,’ I said cautiously, hoping I was nudging him in the right direction. Towards Dr Chalfont. On the grounds of …’

  ‘I don’t intend that St Mary’s should discover these items. After your recent behaviour, I wouldn’t let you excavate one of Mr Strong’s compost heaps,’ he said, returning to his customary tone. ‘I think we should rub their noses in it by inviting Dr Chalfont to preside over the find. And, possibly, Professor Penrose as well. You can never have too many academics to muddy the waters. I shall telephone her at once to discover whether she will provide her own team or whether she wishes St Mary’s to do the donkey work. Then, after the dust has settled, accolades awarded, benefits reaped and fame and fortune enjoyed, then, and only then, might I allow myself to contemplate the possibility of permitting St Mary’s to enter, once again, into some sort of partnership with the University of Thirsk. Under renegotiated terms, of course. I expect Dr Chalfont will be delighted to assist me in that area.’

  He sat back, smiling the satisfied smile of someone settling the score in such a manner that it would probably remain settled until the end of time. I would bet good money that Dr Chalfont was sitting by the phone and expecting his call any minute now.