Plan for the Worst

by Jodi Taylor

  I draped a wooden pectoral cross round my neck – which I really should have done before putting on the veils because that was another struggle – and hung a rosary from my belt.

  When I finally had everything hanging more or less front and centre, I sat at the console and stared at nothing.

  You don’t live long in this job if you don’t develop some sort of feeling for when things aren’t quite right and things definitely weren’t quite right. In fact – things were wrong. Very, very wrong. Every instinct I had was telling me not to do this. And considering that most of my instincts don’t even bother getting out of bed for anything less than an apocalypse, I really should have been listening to them.

  I wasn’t. I wasn’t listening. I watched my hands do all the right things while the greater part of my brain was screaming, ‘Stop. For God’s sake, don’t do this,’ and I didn’t listen to that either. Whatever was driving me – betrayal, conflict, a hot, deep, unexpressed fury, whatever – it was overriding all my safety protocols.

  I told myself not to panic because I could stop this any moment I wanted to. It wasn’t too late to call it all off and go back to my room and spend the evening with Leon and Matthew. I took my hands off the console and sat back. Why did I want to know? Suppose I got to Burgundy and there was no sign of the prince. What would I do then? Why was I doing this? I could very easily be triggering events that were beyond my control. Why could I not just accept what Dr Bairstow had said?

  No. I pushed it all away. It’s always better to know. Knowing isn’t always pleasant but it’s better than the soul-corroding not knowing. I would find out what really happened and deal with it. Never mind the future. Always deal with the now.

  I laid my hands back on the console and finished the safety checks. Everything was fine. Green lights across the board. I took a final look at the screen – no one had burst into the paint store to stop me – which might not have been a bad thing, but no one did. I said, ‘Computer, initiate jump.’

  ‘Jump initiated.’

  And the world went white.

  24

  And here I was. Mechelen, Burgundy. 26th June 1483. Just after dawn. Three or four hours ago, I’d been in London, sicking up all over the Time Police.

  I was somewhere between the palace and St Rumbold’s, which was exactly where I wanted to be. So far, so good. It suddenly struck me that while everything in the world can – and does – go wrong on legitimate jumps, the illegitimate ones are often problem-free. It’s as if the universe is leading me on . . . straight over the cliff.

  We only have tiny mirrors in the pod because mostly we don’t want to know what we look like. I checked myself over as best I could because there wasn’t anyone else to do it for me. I was really quite surprised. I looked just like a nun. Well, of course I did. I was wearing a nun’s habit – what should I look like? A sandwich? I really should pull myself together.

  I took out the altar cloth. It was lovely. The embroidery was detailed and exquisite. Which reminded me. I took off my specs. The ones that make me look both intelligent and sexy. I peered at myself in the mirror again. Now I looked much less modern but much more blurry. Ah well.

  It was just growing light outside. Dr Bairstow had said they’d delivered the prince sometime today. If he was telling the truth, then I would be here to witness the boy’s arrival.

  If he was telling the truth.

  If he wasn’t – if there wasn’t a prince in sight – then Dr Bairstow was a flat-out liar, and if he was lying about that, then what else was he lying about?

  I stopped again. Did I really want to know? Why didn’t I just let it go? Why couldn’t I let it go? What was wrong with me? I should return to St Mary’s now. Before any more harm was done.

  I opened the pod door. Mechelen lay before me. Well, three feet of it did, churned-up mud ending in a blank stone wall. I looked left. The alleyway doglegged out of sight. I looked right. The alleyway ended in a busy street. Right it was.

  I closed the door behind me, carefully draped the altar cloth over my arm and set off.

  Reaching the end of the alleyway, I stared about me. The street was narrow, but busy. This was a cloth town. Prosperous and well built. I could see the palace turrets rising up over the distant roofs.

  The building opposite me, timber built but with a tiled roof, was, as far as I could see from the number of dogs and cats hanging around, a butcher’s shop. Game hung from a set of hooks at one end of the counter, including a couple of massive hares. Various joints of meat swung from other hooks and in the back of the shop, I could see two men butchering a cow. They were amazingly quick. One moment cow – the next moment just lumps of meat and four hooves which were tossed into the gloopy-looking glue-pot.

  I turned right again, and sticking to the very centre of the narrow street, headed for the turrets. Church bells everywhere were ringing the hour of prime, so it was about six in the morning. I had a long day ahead of me and I couldn’t lose concentration for a moment in case I missed anything. I had to be able to say, definitively, whether a young prince would be delivered here today. I was prepared to give Dr Bairstow the benefit of the doubt, but he’d just said ‘the next day’, which might mean any time between dawn and dusk. So I had to cover all day, if necessary. I was almost certain there would be a curfew – they would ring the bell around compline – seven in the evening – so I’d have to be back at the pod by then or face some very awkward questions.

  I had a whole ton of supplies tucked under my scapula, including a couple of sachets of water and a few of those high-energy biscuits. I sloshed as I walked.

  Dressing as a nun had been a good idea. People moved aside to make room. Whether for me or for the altar cloth was unclear, but I was happy to take advantage. I smiled and nodded and walked slowly because people who walk slowly can never be up to anything bad, can they?

  The street led into a square, large and quite nicely paved. It had rained in the night. I wondered if this was the same rain that had fallen on me in London. The air was cool and fresh and the cobbles gleamed in the weak, early-morning sun. Houses and shops were built around three sides and what I took to be the Palace of Mechelen occupied the entire fourth side, directly opposite me. I suspected this was the back of the building, which was what I wanted because I had an idea – rightly or wrongly – that nuns didn’t march up to front doors and demand entrance.

  I walked slowly through the crowds. Men touched their ­foreheads or doffed their caps completely, which was reassuring. Nobody shouted, ‘Stone her,’ which is always the first thing I check for in a large crowd of people. Best of all, no voice boomed, ‘Dr Maxwell. My office. Immediately.’ No, it was all good.

  The air was very fresh. The breeze tugged at my veil. I could feel it frivolously streaming out behind me. I crossed my fingers and put all my trust in Velcro.

  The first thing to do was familiarise myself with the surrounding streets and possible routes back to the pod. I had no one to watch my back. I was completely on my own.

  I roved up and down the streets, noting landmarks. A church. A street pedlar on the corner. A woman selling what looked like bunches of lavender. Up and down and round corners until I considered I knew the area well enough should I have to get back to the pod more quickly than usual.

  I stopped some distance away and examined the back of the palace. Ahead of me, two long, low, stone and timber buildings presented no access of any kind. They were semi-detached but each with a different roof line. And no door. And certainly no windows. Not that that would have done me any good anyway. I’m very hazy on the more esoteric habits of religious orders, but I’m pretty sure nuns don’t climb through windows. Not in public, anyway.

  I rather suspected these buildings were a combination of stables, barns and storerooms. There was another small building to their right, on the corner. I was certain, from the smell, this was the brewhouse. But, bet
ween that and the stables stood a pair of wide wooden doors for wagons and deliveries, and with a narrow wicket set therein. Bingo.

  The doors stood open which was even more encouraging, although they weren’t unguarded. Two soldiers, one inside and one outside, were watching the world go by. Their jaws were moving so I guessed they were just finishing off their breakfast.

  I hesitated. It was tempting to try my luck here – and I would – but a prudent nun takes a walk around the whole building first, sussing out possible trouble spots and escape routes before committing herself. I turned right and walked past the brewhouse.

  Rounding the corner brought me to the kitchen. Even over the wall I could hear pots clashing and men shouting. It could have been one of those TV chef shows. Nothing changes, does it?

  The kitchens appeared to go on forever, but once past them I was at the main gate. Which was very grand with the Burgundy coat of arms emblazoned in the wall above it. This gate was also open. Which was good in case I needed to get out in a hurry. There were easily half a dozen guards here, however, and, from the sound of it, a good number in the guardroom to the left, as well.

  I carried on walking, passing, I think, the chapel, and then around the corner again.

  The long front of the building was broken by three turrets. I knew I was in the right place because above a tiny, arched door in one of the turrets hung a diamond-shaped shield, carved with Margaret’s coat of arms. I stood with my back to the building to get the lie of the land and take stock. Another, larger, grander square stood before me, again surrounded by houses but much bigger and of better quality. Guildhalls, perhaps? I was obviously in the better part of town. Over there were the town walls and the River Dijle. The docks here weren’t large – the river was navigable only by smaller boats.

  I kept going and turned another corner. Now this was interesting. The front of the building was residential, but there were no buildings behind this wall. I wondered if this could be the garden. There would be a small kitchen garden, I knew, with herbs and suchlike. And possibly a place for flowers in which women could sit and sew, but this seemed quite a large area. Almost the width of one whole side. I was attracted to the garden because I reckoned that’s where any recently arrived young princes would eventually be found.

  Keeping the wall to my left, I turned the last corner and was back at the stables again. I took stock. There was the main gate, well guarded, and this back gate, less well guarded, but, I suspected, only on the surface. The small door at the front of the building would be locked, I was certain. And the residential area wasn’t where I wanted to be anyway. It would be the back door for me, as befitted my calling.

  The wind stirred my veil again. I looked up at the sky. The sun had disappeared and the clouds were low and grey. More rain was on the way. I needed to get a move on. There’s reconnaissance and then there’s procrastination.

  I unfolded the altar cloth and arranged it across my forearms in a manner that displayed the golden embroidery, shook my head to ensure my veil fell neatly down my back and set off across the square.

  It’s a strange thing but I’ve noticed this before: the clothes we wear affect the way we move. Well, yes, obviously, but it’s subtler than that. Once, dressed as a wealthy Tudor woman, I’d had to make my way around Holyrood House and the court of Mary Stuart. I’d been up to no good that day and it had taken everything I had not to take to my heels and run away. I’d walked those corridors, chin up, wide skirts swishing, taking tiny steps, heels tapping on the floorboards, exuding high-born Tudor confidence. Guards had saluted me and opened doors. It had been the clothes, I was sure of it. It was the same now. I held the altar cloth as if it was some precious relic and slowly approached the guards standing at the back door. I didn’t stride. I didn’t stare around me. I kept my eyes on the ground in front of me and concentrated on finding a safe pathway across the slippery wet stones.

  Plenty of people were using this back gate. Kitchen staff, grooms, the occasional delivery – all were waved in or out by the guards. I suspected, however, that security would not be as lax as it appeared. The delivery men would all be known to the guards. They’d be in and out on a daily basis. I, on the other hand, was a stranger.

  Yes, but I was a nun. I stood a little taller, walked a little more slowly and told myself I could do this.

  The two guards were just inside the gate, talking to a man with a falcon on his wrist. I stood quite still and waited to be noticed. One of them looked up and saw me. Leaving the group, he strolled across. I braced myself to run but he was very polite. Doffing his cap – really, we forget how important religion and those who represented it were in the Middle Ages – he greeted me. At least, I assume that was what he was doing. There were French words I recognised, but sadly, not in any comprehensible order.

  I smiled at him and said quietly and in Latin, ‘I bring the altar cloth of St Mary. As instructed. I believe it is expected.’

  Not that he would know, but confidence is key.

  I don’t think he understood me. Latin was the international language of the day but not for the lower orders. It set me above him, however, which was what I’d been counting on. He ran his eye over the altar cloth. It was a shame the sun wasn’t shining to pick out the lovely gold thread in gleaming light, but it still looked pretty good. I cast an anxious glance at his really rather grubby hands but he knew better than to touch it.

  Stepping back, he nodded. I breathed a silent sigh of relief. I hadn’t really expected any difficulty. Mechelen was peaceful and well-to-do. There were no wars – not currently, anyway – and religion opens all doors. I set off for the gate, not hurry­ing, not looking around, concentrating on my task, taking my time . . .

  The guard shouted something and I had a bowel-twanging moment as I thought I’d been rumbled, but he was only calling to his mate to let me through. Both he and falcon man moved aside for me, touching their caps. I smiled and nodded, and crossed the threshold into the busy courtyard beyond.

  I was in.

  25

  The bells were ringing again, the sound hammering out over wet rooftops. Terce – nine a.m. Everyone had been up for hours earning their daily bread – time for me to do the same.

  Under cover of adjusting the altar cloth again, I took a quick look around. I was standing in a large, well-paved courtyard. Tall walls looked down on me, broken by small, irregularly placed windows. Behind me, to my left, stood the stables and barns. I could hear the sounds of horses. To my right, the brewhouse and kitchen. As I paused, an unseen someone somewhere dropped a dish – a big one by the sound of it. Someone laughed and a woman’s voice was raised in anger.

  Ahead of me, an arched and echoing tunnel led through to the open main gate, through which I could see the square in which I’d stood earlier this morning.

  To my right, an open door led, I guessed, to the chapel. That was the direction in which I should go. No doubt, it was the direction the guards expected me to take. If they were watching. I didn’t dare turn around to look. Instead, I turned left. Towards where, if my notoriously unreliable bump of direction was working, the gardens lay.

  A tall, ivy-covered stone and brick wall lay ahead of me with an arched wooden door, grey with age, right in the middle. Unfortunately, just when I needed it, this door was closed. Closed doors signified privacy. Ah well – I was a nun. They wouldn’t shoot me. No – they’d send for the nearest abbot, hand me over and he would shoot me. I had no idea what the punishment for nun impersonation was but I was certain it wouldn’t be good.

  I muttered a quick prayer to any deity that might be listening – it was a good bet the god of historians wasn’t even up yet – and walked slowly towards the door. No one stopped me. No one hung from a window, shouting the Burgundian equivalent of, ‘Who the hell are you and what do you think you’re playing at?’

  I caught hold of the cold metal ring and twisted. Nothing. The doo
r didn’t move. Dammit – I’d come so far and the bloody door was locked. I couldn’t stand all day in this courtyard. I’d be far too visible. My second choice was the chapel but there would be a priest and my cover story wouldn’t bear any sort of close investigation. I panicked for a moment then took a breath and twisted the ring the other way. The door creaked open. Sometimes I’m a complete idiot.

  I stared around. This was perfect. Just perfect. Wonderful. Just what I was looking for. Absolutely wonderfully perfect.

  I was standing looking into a large garden. A cloister-style structure ran around the outside walls. The centre was grass, heavily speckled with raindrops. Four paths ran diagonally from each corner and in the centre lay the traditional small pool. Tiny bushes lined the paths and each corner had a border where herbs, marigolds and something that looked like daisies all crowded together, their heads drooping after the heavy rain. Lavender hedges made the still air heavy with scent. Best of all, the cloisters were open plan, with benches set against the walls. I suspected they’d been designed so ladies could take their exercise without getting wet. This was exactly what a small nun was looking for. I could walk around the cloister. If anyone challenged me, I was bringing a gift from the convent of St Mary’s – there was bound to be a St Mary’s around somewhere – and I’m awfully sorry but I think I’m lost. If the worst came to the worst and things turned nasty, then I’d just surrender the altar cloth and walk away. I doubted anyone would stop me. True, I’d have to endure the Enderby Stare, but I’d deal with that when the time came.

  Leaving the door open so I could keep my eyes and ears open for any possible arrivals, I walked slowly around the cloister, getting my bearings and checking for possible escape routes. There were small arched doorways set into the back and right-hand walls. I was guessing they led to the private residential areas. I made a complete circuit, walking slowly. And then another. And then another. The third bench on the back wall gave me the best view of the courtyard and the main gate. And even if they brought the prince in through the back gate, I’d see and hear him from here. If a prince turned up today then I couldn’t miss him.