by Jodi Taylor
I know I always say, ‘Hope for the best but plan for the worst,’ but tonight had exceeded itself. At this point I had to ask myself how much worse things could possibly get. The answer, sadly, was quite a lot.
I kept very, very still. I daren’t make even the slightest movement. They were not twenty feet away. I didn’t think they would see me as I lurked in the shadows beneath the jetty, but if they waved the lantern this way then I would be in trouble. I took a deep silent breath and dropped my head below the scummy surface until only my eyes were showing.
They were thorough. They scanned back and forth over the water. They weren’t shouting so secrecy was still paramount. Which was a sinister thing in itself. I stayed where I was, treading water and keeping myself as low as possible, holding my breath and keeping my mouth shut; the last thing I needed now was a fit of coughing as Old Father Thames tried to poison me again.
The wait seemed endless. Because it was. They scrutinised every inch of the river visible to them and they took their time. They were thorough. And then, at a word from the one with the lantern, they twisted in their seats and turned their attention to the jetty.
Without time to draw breath, I sank beneath the water. There was even more crap here. People must have been chucking things off the end of this jetty for hundreds of years.
Looking up, I could see a lighter patch in the water as they scanned for . . . for what? Bodies? Witnesses? Escaped princes? Me? None of that was good.I collided again with something that felt like an underwater tree trunk and was probably one of the pilings holding up the jetty. I caught hold of it with both hands and eased my face out of the water.
Or tried to. I could only just get my head clear. Something was tugging me back down into the depths. I resolutely closed my mind to all thoughts of bloated white corpses pulling me down to join them, because that wasn’t particularly helpful right at that moment. The most likely explanation was much more mundane. And much more serious.
My stupid skirts, now thoroughly untied and swirling uselessly around me, had caught on something in the water and were holding me down. Which could be coped with. A resourceful historian laughs in the face of trivial problems like this.
I wrapped one arm and one leg around the piling for purchase, seized a good handful of skirt with the other and yanked hard. Sadly, no happy tearing occurred. In fact, nothing occurred at all. I’d obviously been too gentle. Tightening my grip on everything, and keeping a wary eye on the flickering lantern still uncomfortably close, I gave it some welly.
Big mistake. Big, big mistake.
The wooden piling was slimy and I lost my grip. My skirts failed to tear themselves free. What I did manage to dislodge, however, was the piece of timber on which they were caught. I felt it come free and thought, yes – done it.
Yes, I had. I’d really done it. Because the river here was deep and the piece of timber, or old log, or whatever it was I’d dislodged, was very heavy and was sinking, slowly but surely, to the bottom of the river. And taking me with it.
As even Jane Austen might have said at this point, ‘Bollocks.’
21
If I was going to do anything it had to be now. Before whatever it was that was dragging me to the bottom finished the job. I kicked up as hard as I could, using my arms as well. Bugger the need for secrecy or silence. This was slightly more urgent. Always deal with the now.
I heaved and struggled and it was useless. I wasn’t going down but I wasn’t going up either. My chest was hurting and I could hear my pulse pounding in my head. I was going to drown. I would sink to the bottom of the Thames, slowly decompose in the silt and that would be it. No one would ever know what became of me. Except for Dr Bairstow, whom I intended to haunt for the rest of his natural life. And beyond. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t chosen me. And yes, I know how selfish that sounds – but this wasn’t a case of me getting the hump because he’d opted to save a small child. That was understandable and in the normal scheme of things I’d have had no problem. But this was not the normal scheme of things. It was entirely possible that that little boy should have drowned and Dr Bairstow had interfered with History. History would not be happy. He might well be fending off History at this very moment. I certainly was. And I was alone. It’s our worst nightmare. To be abandoned. To be left to face our death alone.
Anger struggled with disbelief. He’d broken St Mary’s two most important rules. We don’t interfere and we don’t leave our people behind. I kicked again, knowing this would be my last chance. It was a wretched attempt. My legs were entangled in clinging wool and I didn’t go up – typically, I went sideways, smacking into another wooden piling. I grabbed at it, wrapped my arms and legs around it, and climbed. Think monkey on a stick. All the time, the dead weight of whatever I was attached to was trying to drag me down and I was fighting against the current and my own weakness, but I would not give up. I dug in my shoes, straightened my legs, pulled up with my arms, did it all again and was slightly surprised when my head broke the surface almost immediately. I hadn’t been that far down.
I wrapped arms and legs more tightly around the support, gasped for breath and just clung on for dear life. The wooden support was slimy with some kind of green weed and I had to clamp myself hard to it so as not to slither back under the water. My head was only inches clear and I could just breathe but I couldn’t climb any higher. My arms started to tremble with the strain. I was holding up both myself and what felt like a medieval telegraph pole. Or maybe a hippopotamus. I slithered down an inch, clawed it back and rested my head against the slippery piling. Death by waterborne disease no longer held any fears for me. I should live so long.
The lantern beam was still jerking around over and under the jetty. Just my luck. Why couldn’t they do a half-arsed job and then push off down the pub like normal people? And in this weather, too. Curse these efficient medieval assassins.
The feeble light wended its way around the wooden uprights. It was only a few yards away. Any second now . . . I turned my face away, screwed up my eyes to save my night vision and hoped for the best. Because that always works, doesn’t it?
Actually, this time it did. The seconds passed. No one shouted. There were no more sounds of the boat bumping around under the jetty. I risked a quick glance. They were moving towards mid-river, taking their lantern with them. I watched, hardly able to believe my luck, and a few seconds later they’d pulled away downriver.
I heaved a massive sigh, inhaled a substantial amount of water because I’d slithered down the greasy pole again, hauled myself back up and wondered what the hell to do next. I was stuck here. If I went anywhere, I’d have to take the bloody log with me and that wasn’t possible. It was just too big and heavy. It might not even be a log. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find myself attached to a sunken boat. If I let go and tried to jerk my skirts free again then the weight would pull me deeper down. The best bet seemed to be just hanging on, but for how much longer I could do that I had no idea. Dawn would be coming up soon. There would be people about then. Did I shout for help and trust them to yank me out and not kill me? Or would I be better keeping quiet? Oh, for God’s sake – this was it. I’d had enough. It was an office job for me. First thing Monday morning I was off into town to register at the Labour Exchange. With the added bonus of never again having to face the boss who’d abandoned me to a watery death. Yeah – that was the way to go. Update the CV and get an indoor job with no heavy lifting. Out of the rain. And definitely with no chance of drowning.
And, because I’d stopped concentrating and slackened my death grip, I slithered a couple more vital inches down the pole. The weight on my skirts was heavier than ever. Whatever it was seemed to be heavy enough to drown me but not heavy enough to tear itself free of the fabric. I contemplated trying to undress but even the slightest movement would cause me to slip another inch. Water was now lapping around my chin. My head, neck, shoulders and back were jus
t one big fiery ache as I struggled to stay afloat.
The water was level with my mouth. I clenched my teeth and tried to look up. Complete darkness above me. Complete darkness all around me. When had the rain stopped? The water now covered my mouth. My whole right side was being pulled sideways off the pole. Water was filling my nostrils. I tilted my head back to give myself a little extra breathing room. I was exhausted. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold on. How much longer I wanted to hold on. The water seemed much warmer. How easy to let go and fall back into the warm darkness. So easy . . .
I thought the rain had stopped but I was wrong. Now the rain was coming down so hard I couldn’t hear even the slap of water around me. Rain drummed mercilessly on the wooden planks over my head. I thought I heard a voice. The drumming stopped. Not rain. Footsteps. Men running. Shouting.
Whoever they were, they were too late. Water filled my nose and mouth. I couldn’t utter a sound. I couldn’t pound on the planks over my head to attract anyone’s attention. If I let go, I’d sink like a stone. I was filled with a desperate, bitter rage. There were people above me and no one knew I was here.
I heard a huge splash and a tidal wave of water washed over my head. It was too much. I lost my grip, floundered desperately for my trusty piling and someone grabbed my wrist. And then the other one. They had a grip like iron. I’m sure I felt my bones bend.
I was dimly aware of being yanked through the water, log and all. Someone cursed. Quite fluently. There seemed to be a lot of groping around my legs. I could feel someone jerking at my skirt. They were nearly as strong as the person holding me up and I was bouncing around like a confused cork. And then, suddenly, the awful weight was gone. I felt it drop away. Someone had cut me free. Hands grabbed me everywhere – round my neck, wrists, legs, under my armpits – and I was heaved, shedding water all over the place, out and up and on to the jetty. I could feel the rough wood underneath my cheek.
I lay in a heap, unable to breathe. My arms and legs were curled underneath me like a drowned spider. There was a tight band around my chest and I couldn’t seem to suck in any air. I couldn’t even cough. Whoever they were, they were too late. I was dead and I hurt all over. Just leave me in peace.
They weren’t gentle. I was rolled on to my back. I could hear voices. Someone was shouting at me.
‘Max. Can you hear me? Wake up.’
I ignored him and the bugger slapped my face. Several times.
‘Wake up, Max.’
Someone else said he’d got a pulse. Well, good for him.
They stopped slapping me – for which I was grateful – what sort of a way is that to treat a casualty? – and quite roughly turned me on to my side. Water spilled out of my nose and mouth. Was that supposed to happen?
‘Is she breathing?’
‘Come on, Max. Breathe. There’s a good girl.’
I’d like to take the credit but my body did it all on its own. I dragged in an excruciating breath, convulsed, coughed, gasped again, choked and brought up more water.
It became a kind of pattern. Suck in air. Cough. Choke. More water. My throat burned with it. My chest hurt with every movement. My face hurt like hell where I’d smacked into the jetty. My eyes stung – I couldn’t see. Everything hurt and these buggers were shouting and slapping me and I just wanted to let go. Every breath was a struggle. I had to fight for each one. I was freezing cold and shivering violently.
More voices called for oxygen. For God’s sake – this was 1483 – where did they think they were going to get oxygen?
‘Is she breathing?’ enquired someone.
‘Well enough. For the time being.’
‘It’ll be light soon. We need to go.’
‘Two minutes.’
They were wrapping me in something warmish which was a waste of time because it immediately became as cold and wet as I was. I was hauled to my feet, hung limply for a moment and then was slung over someone’s shoulder.
Something stirred in the sluggish recesses of my brain. Something had been slung over someone else’s shoulder. Not that long ago. I struggled to find my place in all the things happening around me.
The upside-down-over-someone’s-shoulder bit, while undignified, was actually quite helpful because a couple more gallons of river water came up, burning deep channels in my throat as they did so. And then I vomited properly. All down his back. Whoever he was. Sometimes, I’m not a joy to be with.
And then they were running. I bounced up and down, which did my ribs, back and head no good at all. But even more water came up. I didn’t remember swallowing all this water. Where was it all coming from?
It still hurt to breathe and I’d happily have abandoned the struggle but I knew they’d only start slapping me again so I choked and coughed and shivered and spewed and wondered what would happen next.
The air changed around me. I was inside. They dropped me on to another surface. Not particularly gently. I remember my head bounced on the floor. I cried out and someone said, ‘Sorry.’
There was an oxygen mask. Someone held it in place. It hurt my face. I tried to protest but no words would form. I tried to raise a hand – any hand – but neither of them was working so I gave it all up and just let my rescuers do their best to kill me. I lay still and concentrated on breathing. Which wasn’t getting any easier.
And I was frozen. I didn’t remember being this cold when I was actually in the river. My whole body was shaking. And then suddenly . . .
No time for any warning. My whole body convulsed and I brought up a really nasty mixture of river water, sludge, scum and chicken stew. It wasn’t pleasant. It went everywhere. And I really mean everywhere.
Eventually, someone said, ‘Well, better out than in, I suppose.’
The ensuing silence spoke volumes.
I tried to say, ‘Sorry,’ but the effort brought on another fit of coughing. Everyone flinched but stoically remained at their posts. Whoever they were.
I was sodden. Inside and out. The floor on which I lay was sodden. I’d even managed to drench the people around me. With one fluid or another.
Somewhere behind me, a voice said, ‘Commence jump procedures.’
‘Commencing jump procedures.’
That sounded familiar. The Time Police were here and I could guess why. They’d be all over this particular St Mary’s cock-up. Rescuing me had simply been a by-product of their assignment that I was sure they were already regretting. I should probably do or say something but I was drifting in and out of things. Like in the old song.
In and out the bluebell windows.
In and out the bluebell windows.
In and out the bluebell windows.
A one, a two, a three
Follow me.
I hadn’t thought of that for years.
If we landed then I missed it but someone hoisted me off the floor with a grunt and I was carried off somewhere else. More comfortably this time. The right way up. Not over someone’s shoulder like a sack of old potatoes.
And then I was inside the somewhere else. More oxygen. I was quite squiffy with the stuff. And there were heat pads which were nice.
And then it was time to go to sleep.
22
It would be nice to say I awoke and remembered nothing but that didn’t happen. One moment I was asleep and the next I was wide awake and I remembered everything. I was drowning. I was being dragged down into the dark where no one would ever find me and there was nothing I could do and I couldn’t breathe and I was dying.
I flailed wildly for something solid to hold on to and two warm hands grasped mine and a familiar voice said, ‘Max, it’s all right. You’re safe.’
I tried to speak but my throat hurt so much.
‘It’s all right, Max. You’re safe. I’ve got you. Go back to sleep.’
Markham?
The last time I’d seen him he’d been lying in a stricken heap in Sick Bay which was almost certainly where I was, too. Or we were both dead, of course. The way I felt it could be either. I didn’t really care. Although – and I think everyone will agree – the thought of spending eternity with Markham was perturbing.
I tried to open my eyes but fifty per cent of them weren’t working. I squinted. We were in the isolation ward – Markham’s second home – and he was holding a sign he’d made which read, ‘Congrats – cholera at last.’
‘You see,’ he said, reproachfully. ‘This is what happens to historians who think they don’t need the Security Section. Absolute catastrophe.’
He had a point. If he’d been with us then he would have been the one to fall in the river. He would have been the one with cholera. He’s a lightning rod for disaster. It was all his fault I was in this state.
I endeavoured to convey this to him but it was all too much effort so I closed my eye again, enjoying the soft warmth of proper pillows and sheets and the complete lack of the River Thames, and tried to recapture unconsciousness. That didn’t work – thoughts were running around my head like a hamster on a wheel – so I gave that up and had a bit of a think instead.
There was a lot to try and get straight in my mind before I said anything to anyone. Most importantly – the princes, smuggled out of the Tower on the night of the 25th June: were they alive or dead? And why were they being smuggled out at the dead of night? To kill them somewhere else? A bit dodgy, surely. The risk of one of them getting away . . . which was exactly what had happened.
Or were the boys being taken to safety? King Richard was, by all reports, a kindly uncle. Elizabeth Woodville, the boys’ mother, had voluntarily handed her younger son over to him. Without a qualm, apparently. Why would she do that if she distrusted him? She and Richard were natural enemies, representing two different factions at court. And yet she entrusted her younger son to his care and protection. Did Richard suspect the two young princes would become political pawns? There was the problem of their supposed illegitimacy. Which might not have been that important had Edward been an adult, a strong king and a popular one, as his father had been. But Edward was a young boy, unable to defend himself or his kingdom from the threats his illegitimacy could pose.