An Argumentation of Historians

by Jodi Taylor

  The passage forked. Left led to the guardroom where I could hear a murmur of male voices. Right was a short passage leading to a flight of stone steps spiralling up into the gloom.

  He took an oil lamp from a niche in the wall and motioned me to follow him up the stairs. I paused for a moment and he disappeared around the bend. It was suddenly very dark. I took a deep breath, put my hand on the rough outer wall for guidance and stumbled after him.

  The stair opened into two rooms. One was obviously his private quarters. There was a low bed with a wooden chest at the foot. Another chest was placed under a window. Clothing hung from pegs on the wall and several pairs of boots were ranged against the wall. A small stool stood behind the door. Everything was very neat and in its place. The room of a man who fended for himself.

  He settled his flickering light on the chest and motioned me through to the second room, which was empty. I don’t know for what purpose it had originally been built. There was no window and it was too big for storage and not big enough for a bed. Even I could barely stretch out in it and I’m not tall. I wondered if it had once been a garderobe – there was a narrow shelf around the outside wall wide enough for someone to sit on – and a smell of fresh mortar. Had they blocked up a possible entrance in anticipation of what was to come? Whatever it was, I didn’t care. Here was a huge piece of unlooked for luck. Yes, he was between me and the door, but he was also between me and the world out there. It could have been a lot worse. And it wouldn’t be the first toilet I’d slept in.

  If you don’t undress, clean your teeth, wash your face and hands or brush your hair, then preparing for bed takes no time I at all. I lay down on the rough floor and closed my eyes. And then, of course, because the human mind must always have something to worry about, no sooner did I know I was safe-ish for the next few hours, than the events of the day came crashing back with the force of a tidal wave running downhill.

  What of Markham and the others? How had they fared at Persepolis? What had happened to them? What the hell had happened back at St Mary’s? Had Ronan shown up for the crown? And Leon? How would they tell him what had happened to me? How angry would he be? Would they send a rescue party? Yes, of course they would, but they wouldn’t find me. No one would ever find me. I was here in 1399 and things were about to get very dodgy indeed at St Mary’s.

  And the rest of the country wouldn’t be much better off. Henry IV was a usurper and would never be allowed to forget it. He’d fight off rebellions by the various nobles, including the Percys from the north and Owain Glyn Dŵr from Wales, and everything would culminate in the Battle of Shrewsbury in 1403.

  I rolled over onto my back. 1403? Why did that date ring a bell? Apart from the Battle of Shrewsbury, I mean. 1403 ... and then I had it. I’d been to 1403 before. My first jump. The solo one that signified the end of my training. I’d been despatched to Shrewsbury, 1403.

  I hadn’t got there – the pod had been programmed to take me somewhere else. It was the last part of our final exam. To see how we coped alone, lost, in the wrong time and the wrong place with no hope of rescue. I’d worked out I was in no danger, sat back and enjoyed a pleasant few days in the sun with plenty to eat and a couple of good books. I’d still been quite pleased to get home though. I remembered dancing out of the pod trying to be cool and historian-like and failing utterly. But – and I could hardly believe I’d been this stupid – I hadn’t asked where and when I’d been. I’d been so relieved to get back that I hadn’t asked. I remembered the distant mountains and the sound of the wind sighing in the long grass that definitely wasn’t Shrewsbury. But if it hadn’t been Shrewsbury then it might not have been 1403. It probably hadn’t been. But I couldn’t take that chance. Because you can’t be in the same time twice. There are a lot of rules and regs about time travel – sorry, observing major historical events in contemporary time – and I’d broken most of them at one time or another, but there’s one rule that is unbreakable. You can’t be in the same time twice. If I’d already jumped to 1403 and if I was here when 1403 came around – as it surely would in a couple of years – then the result would be catastrophic. No one’s quite sure exactly what would happen but even Professor Rapson says it would be very bad indeed and if he thinks it would be bad then trust me – it would be apocalyptic.

  So, even if, against all the odds, I survived here – even if I managed to make myself a life and a home – even if everything went well for me and I prospered – once 1403 turned up I could be finished. And there wouldn’t be anything I could do about it. One day, in a far corner of the world, a long way from this place, a pod would arrive with me in it and something awful would happen to reality as a consequence.

  But, argued the other part of me, that was in a different universe. That might not have happened here.

  There are too many similarities, said the first part. Isabella Barclay was shot in both worlds and although it was by different people, the end result was the same. Peterson still incurred that awful wound to his arm. All right, David Sands didn’t have that terrible car accident on his way to Rushford and end up in a wheelchair, but only a few weeks later he lost his foot. There are similarities all over the place. You can’t afford to take the chance. You have to assume you jumped to 1403. Still, the problem’s easily solved, isn’t it?

  Yep – easy-peasy. All I had to do was ensure I wasn’t here in 1403. So either I needed to get myself rescued, or build my own pod and rescue myself, or …

  Or end my existence before the worst could happen. I didn’t know the specific date I’d landed in 1403, so, to be on the safe side, I should be topping myself as the clock struck midnight on New Year’s Eve. Yes, I know there were no clocks here, but allow me a little dramatic licence, please.

  And could I do it? When the time came, could I actually do it? If I hadn’t been in the original 1403 then I wouldn’t have to. I could be ending my own life unnecessarily but could I afford to take the chance? The odds were stacking themselves against me. They often do when you’re not in your own time. History doesn’t like it.

  It was all problematic anyway. I was going to be dead long before 1403.

  I curled up into a tiny ball and cried quietly in the dark.

  I would have liked at least a few hours to myself, to think about things a little and to settle my mind, but chance would have been a fine thing.

  I was still awake when I heard the stir of people beginning to move around outside. I heard William Hendred use his chamber pot, splash some water about, dress, and then the door banged behind him.

  No sooner had he departed than I was up and running as well. Has anyone ever noticed how a lot more beer comes out than goes in? It’s a fluid that defies the laws of physics.

  Keeping my eyes firmly to the front, I trotted round to the ladies’ side of the midden, did my business, reminded myself about the broad-leafed plants again, shook out my skirts, adjusted my hair and swilled my face in the water trough outside the stables. There are basic historian rules about this sort of thing but it struck me that dying naturally of typhus or cholera would also be a Good Thing and therefore I should make a start.

  I stood for a moment looking around me, watching the early morning bustle. And it was early morning. A mist lay over the stream and the three great carp pools. The gate was wide open and people were already streaming in and out.

  William Hendred strode past and gestured towards the hall. Apparently, I was entitled to breakfast.

  Porridge. I quite like porridge. And this wasn’t the girlie stuff made with milk and sugar either. This was man’s porridge, guaranteed to put hairs on your chest – or in my case, keep me on my feet throughout the longest working day I’d ever known.

  I shovelled down a bowlful as fast as I could and joined the procession of people out of the gates and into the fields.

  Because it was haytime.

  I never before realised the importance of modern machinery in the hay-making process. Giant machines that roar up and down enormous f
ields, cutting, spreading, gathering, baling, carrying away and stacking, while the driver twiddles a few levers and listens to Radio 4, pausing occasionally for a swift mug of tea and a pack of chocolate digestives.

  Bloody hell, I’ve never worked so hard in my life. And I work for Dr Bairstow!

  Someone handed me something shaped like a wooden rake. Someone else pointed to a line of people moving slowly across a patch of land. I joined the end and looked to see what everyone else was doing. This was where my lies would start to unravel. Anyone born into this world would know exactly what was happening. Knowledge was handed down from generation to generation. It was bone deep. In their blood. I hadn’t got a bloody clue. And I couldn’t pass myself off as a townswoman either. I couldn’t cook, sew, spin – all women from the highest to the lowest could spin – tend livestock, rear poultry, brew beer – I couldn’t do any of that. I was in deep shit here.

  Someone said something on one side of me and I bent to my task. As far as I could see they were raking the dried hay into piles. I looked behind me. A horse-drawn flat wagon with slatted sides was waiting. Right. So, someone had cut the hay. Someone else had turned the hay until it was dry. We were raking it into piles ready for someone to cart it away to be stored in a barn or made into a haystack. I was part of a process but, looking around, only the easiest bit. I looked along the line which was mostly women, one or two of whom were pregnant. Another had a baby tied to her back. There were elderly people on the line as well. And then there was me – the foreign woman, who should show them she wasn’t such a useless lump. I set to with a will.

  Of course, I hadn’t got a clue. Certainly not enough of a clue to tear off a strip of material to protect my hands from the rough wooden handle. Within an hour, I could feel the blisters forming. Not that I was taking a lot of notice because my back was killing me. And the hot sun beating down was making my head ache. And I hadn’t had any sleep the night before. And I hadn’t had the sense to pace myself because I had hours of toil ahead of me.

  This was important to them. This crop – and the one that would come after because there would be at least two cuts – would feed their livestock through the winter and spring. Without winter fodder, they’d have to slaughter most or all of their animals and, without their animals, the next year would be a tough one. I was about to get a glimpse of medieval country life, where everything interlocked and everyone and everything was reliant on someone else doing their job properly. Failure to do so was a lingering death by starvation. And everything was hostage to the weather.

  So, I went at it with a will – just to show them I wasn’t completely hopeless, raking away for dear life, and two hours later I was nearly dead. I looked up at the sun and judged it to be about nine o’clock. Another eight hours at least.

  I don’t know how I got through it. Children brought ale around at intervals. I drank deeply, peed under a tree, remembered I’d forgotten about dock leaves yet again, and just carried on. I stopped looking up, concentrating only on the square yard of ground in front of me. Rake a small pile, step forward, add to the pile, do it again, and when it was knee high, move on and start again. No one seemed to work very quickly, but they never stopped, and neither could I. I just kept going. It wasn’t unpleasant. The smell of hay was wonderful, the birds sang, a slight breeze blew, and all around me people talked. Occasionally someone sang. I thought I recognised ‘Symer is icumen in, Lhude sing cucco!’ and joined in to the best of my ability. And then, just to show willing, I gave them a quick blast of ‘Twice Daily’, which I hoped to God they didn’t understand. The two women to my right were laughing although whether at me or my song remained to be seen.

  Some time before noon, they brought round bread, a little cheese and another kind of pottage or stew. Not so nice as the one last night but I ate it all. I needed the strength because I was knackered and the day was only half gone. I think I thought if I put in a good day’s work then they’d keep me on tomorrow. It was a time of year when every able-bodied person was needed. Hence the old, the pregnant, the weak – and me.

  We sat for a half an hour under the tree where I’d publicly peed – I no longer cared – and it took everything I had to get back up again. My hands were bleeding, my legs and back had stopped working properly and my head was splitting. Any worries I’d had about what would happen in the future had long since fled because I’d be lucky to make it to teatime, never mind 1403. I’d give my aching right arm for a mug of tea. For a moment, my eyes blurred with tears. Angrily, I blinked them away. I wasn’t going to give up on my first day. I’d give up tomorrow.

  Fortunately, or so I thought, the afternoon clouded over. The breeze stiffened. Everyone looked up and then redoubled their efforts. It looked as if it was going to rain. Anything not under cover would get wet. The hay would have to dry all over again – even I know you can’t stack wet hay because it goes mouldy.

  I raked and raked until I couldn’t feel my arms any longer. My hands throbbed. I’d finally had the sense to tear off a little of my stole and wrapped it around both hands, but the blood had seeped through and I was pretty sure my hands were stuck to my rake. Pulling them away was going to hurt.

  Walter of Shrewsbury appeared several times, casting an expert eye over the proceedings, speaking occasionally to the workers. He particularly barked at a pregnant woman who had stopped to ease her back. I was pleased to see her answer him back. The Black Death had turned out to be a friend to the survivors. Labour was now so scarce that many peasants could almost name their own price. Poaching other people’s peasants was unlawful and frequent. If a man didn’t like his master he could easily find another. Society was in flux and it was no bad thing. Walter of Shrewsbury was an elderly man. He might well have difficulty adjusting to this newer, more bolshie set of serfs, many of whom were being freed or buying their own freedom. Or just plain running away. Anyway, I don’t know what she said to him, but he pursed his mouth and turned away.

  An hour later, William Hendred turned up, his shoulders covered in wisps of hay. He’d obviously been working, rather than just standing around pissing people off. He stood for a while, hands on hips, watching what was going on. I did my best but I must have stood out like tits on a bull.

  I heard him call something but took no notice until the woman next to me nudged me, nodded in his direction and I realised he wanted me. Reluctantly, dragging my bloodstained rake behind me, I trailed over.

  He stared at me. All right, we might have a bit of language problem sometimes, but I’d seen that look before. Teachers, employers, Major Guthrie, Leon in his previous incarnation as my primary trainer – exasperation mingled with amusement. He pulled my rake out of my hands and, yes, I was glued to it with dried blood. I refused even to wince, gritting my teeth and glaring at him. He took my hands, stared at them and then called to the hay wagon coming along behind us. Someone raised an arm in acknowledgement. It seemed I’d been sacked from raking and was now to work at the hay-face.

  I trudged over and climbed onto the back of the wagon. They forked up great armfuls of hay and I and two others unloaded it onto the cart. This work was slightly easier although it soon became apparent I hadn’t a clue here, either. You can’t just chuck it on any old how. It has to be carefully stacked so as to get as much as possible on the wagon without it all sliding off again.

  I was covered in hay in no time. And I was hot and sweaty. My scalp prickled under my stole. When the smell of hay wore off I was going to be rather unpleasant to be downwind from. Although, of course, so would everyone else.

  It took a long time to clear the field. I suspected they were getting it done now because it might rain in the night. And ours wasn’t the only field being cleared. All around, every patch of grass in sight had been cut. The common grazing all around the village, patches of land belonging to various cottages. Everyone, everywhere, was getting the hay in. Two or three wagons were slowly trundling towards the barns, the big one up by the church and the two even bigger ones ou
tside St Mary’s. At least the crop wouldn’t be ruined if it did rain.

  At last, when it was almost too dark to see, they called a halt. Either that or I was going blind with fatigue. Everyone climbed onto the cart and we slowly trundled home.

  I felt too tired to eat, but that wouldn’t be a good idea. This wasn’t my time, where a missed meal could be compensated for with a giant breakfast the next day. There was never any guarantee that food would turn up tomorrow. I should eat now. Always sleep, eat and spend a penny when you can. You never know what tomorrow will bring.

  Most people had dispersed back to their own cottages. I sighed. I had public dining to contend with and a stone toilet to sleep in. What I wanted was a bath, a gallon of tea and one of Mrs Mack’s McBurgers. What I got was a thick stew that actually wasn’t bad. No meat again, but quite tasty nevertheless, with some kind of flat unleavened bread, speckled with green herbs and grit. I soaked it carefully in my stew and set to, secure in the knowledge that I’d done a good day’s work. Well, a day’s work, anyway. Everyone chattered around me. No one else was on the point of exhaustion. I was such a wuss.

  I washed it all down with half a beaker of beer, nodded politely to my elderly companions and wandered out to the midden before bed. Squatting, deeply contemplative, and staring up at the stars, it struck me that what wasn’t unpleasant now on this warm summer night would be bloody awful on a sleety night in winter.

  Still, looking on the bright side, I’d almost certainly be dead by then.

  When I arrived at William Hendred’s penthouse suite, the door was closed. I stopped, wondering what to do next. Enter? Knock and enter? Go away? Did he have a woman in there? I didn’t think he was married – he didn’t have the look of a married man, but he might well be indulging in a little light entertainment to round off the day. Or perhaps last night had been a one-off and I was now back in the public domain. I hesitated and while I stood undecided, he opened the door and motioned me inside.