by Jodi Taylor
Retaining his clasp, he said, with no preliminaries, ‘Will you be my wife?’
It wasn’t unexpected. I’d spent long hours thinking about this when I should have been concentrating on chickens or spinning, but it was a shock finally to hear the words spoken.
Typically, having spoken, he fell silent. Not for him the outpourings of a man in love. No talk of wild desire or unbounded passion. Just a simple request.
I let my hand lie quietly in his, cast down my eyes and made myself think. Because the moment had come.
I had no man to give me status. I had no relatives, no property, no skills of any kind. I couldn’t brew, or raise livestock, or churn butter, or make cheese. I still couldn’t spin. Every woman in the country, from the highest to the lowest, knew how to spin, except me. I’d never be able to get employment. Yes, the guilds permitted widows to work, but you had to have been married to a guild member in the first place. I couldn’t set up a business. No one would trade with me.
There was only one way for me to earn a living and if I had to do that then surely it was better with just one man than many. Besides – he was a good man and I was never going home. I’d never see St Mary’s again. Or Leon. Or Matthew.
I’d made up my mind to commit to the 15th century. There would be problems in 1403, but that was two years away and I’d be lucky to last that long. I should say ‘yes’. I wanted to say ‘yes’ but, deep inside, the tiny part of me that never lost faith flickered one last time. To say ‘yes’ would be to give up hope forever.
As you should do, said the rest of me. Close the door on hope and get on with the rest of your life. While you can.
I took a breath and looked at him. If I said ‘yes’, then we were as good as married. Yes, there could be a church service if we wanted one, but in these days for a man to ask a woman and for her to say ‘yes’ bound both parties. To all intents and purposes, we would be married.
If I said ‘no’, then that would be it forever. He would never ask again. He wouldn’t throw me out, but he would move on. There would soon be someone else. He was a very eligible man. Could I bear seeing another woman have what I could have had? I should say ‘yes’. I wanted to say ‘yes’. I don’t know what held me back.
Clasping his hand tightly, I said, ‘Sir, must I answer now?’
‘No.’
‘Sir, I … I …’
‘I understand. Your husband is not long dead. Perhaps it is too soon.’
I nodded. That would do. ‘Sir, I must … say “goodbye” to my husband. In my heart. He was a good man.’ My voice wobbled. I swallowed hard. ‘Tonight. I will answer you tonight.’
He nodded. ‘Tonight.’
I don’t know what happened next. I don’t know who moved towards whom. I had my eyes closed.
He kissed me.
I’ve never been so thoroughly kissed in my life. He brought the single-minded concentration he brought to everything he did. Slow, gentle and very, very long. People say their senses swam – well, mine certainly did. I leaned my head against his chest for support and listened to his heart race again and struggled for breath.
He stepped back and the world felt suddenly strange and cold, so I lifted my face to be kissed again. I had to. I wanted to. The second kiss was even better than the first. At the finish, I had to clutch the front of his doublet for support. I couldn’t catch my breath. He was a very thorough man. I imagined his hands …
He kissed me again. Even longer this time. We stood alone in his sunny chamber, the world silent around us, and I was conscious only of him.
Eventually, I stepped back. It was that or pass out from lack of oxygen. He stepped back too.
‘Tonight,’ I said hoarsely, and whether I was talking about giving him my answer or something else entirely, I couldn’t have told you.
He nodded. ‘Tonight, then.’
He crossed to the door, put his hand on the latch and looked back at me over his shoulder.
I whispered, ‘William,’ and he was across the room in two strides and I was in his arms again. I could feel his urgency and his desire. And my own. I could kiss him forever.
Now he was the one to step back. He laughed a little, and said again, ‘Tonight,’ which was just as well, because if he’d whispered, ‘Now …’ I would have been a lost woman.
Then he opened the door and I could hear him running down the stairs.
I spent a few minutes trying to pull myself together. It wasn’t that I was dishevelled. Not externally anyway. Internally I was extremely dishevelled. I was all over the place. I smoothed my tunic, checked my stole was still covering my hair and splashed my face with a little water from the bowl on his wooden chest. Then I made my way downstairs.
There was no sign of him anywhere, but Fat Piers was bellowing for me in the kitchen. Good God, was it that time already? For how long had I been in his room? Well, never mind that now.
I shot in at a less than stately walk and snatched Father Ranulf’s basket off the table. It struck me that if I did say ‘yes’ to William then this would be the last time I would ever do this. Not that there wouldn’t be a whole new set of duties and responsibilities, but I could be – I would be – lady of the manor.
I sailed out through the gate, my basket over my arm and my head full of thoughts and dreams and plans and ideas. Hopping over the ford, I waved to John Smith and the several of his many sons who were helping him that day and set off up the hill. Pikey Peter’s mother, Eadgytha, sat outside her door, spinning and keeping an eye on the oven. The smell of fresh bread temporarily overrode the smell of turned earth and manure.
Three or four women were drawing water from the village well, tiny children running around under their feet, trying to help and only succeeding in getting in the way. A dog rushed out from William Carpenter’s house, sniffed around my skirts – no idea what he was looking for there – and rushed off again, nose down, intent on his own business.
I didn’t hurry. The day was fine and sunny and my basket wasn’t heavy. I was looking forward to sitting with Ranulf and Rowena on their bench, practising my very improved medieval English. These days there were many more words and much less miming.
And then my mind ran back to this morning, sitting by the stream with William Hendred and then afterwards in his chamber and my pace slowed even more. I replayed the scene. His words. His touch. That kiss. All those kisses. If I said ‘yes’ to him, my life would be hugely improved. I would have status. The same status as my husband. As lady of the manor, I would never again have to rise before dawn on a winter’s morning and go in search of eggs laid by absent-minded hens. No more breaking the ice on the water trough to wash my face. I would sit at the high table. Near the fire and out of the draught.
And if I said ‘no’ … it didn’t bear thinking about. Even if I survived, in only a few years I would become another Maud, toothless and old before her time, with no man to support her, always dependent on the charity of others.
I shivered. I didn’t want that. Not in a million years. I knew what my answer was going to be. Tonight. Tonight would be something magical …
I was so lost in pleasant thoughts I nearly missed it.
I was just about to turn off for the church when a voice behind a bush said urgently, ‘Hey. Maxwell.’
You don’t catch me twice. Unless you’re Clive Ronan, of course.
I moved to the far side of the road, assumed an aggressive stance and said, ‘Bugger off. Whoever you are.’
The bush said again, ‘Maxwell. Here.’
I took a few paces further away.
The bush panicked. ‘Don’t go. For God’s sake, don’t go. I need your help.’
‘Who are you?’
The leaves rustled and cautiously – very cautiously – out stepped the old man – Ronan’s old man – the one who had left me here nearly a year ago now.
I was too surprised to speak. Then I thought – Ronan’s here – and looked around for the nearest help.
�
��No,’ he said, quickly. ‘Don’t run. For God’s sake, wait. He’s hurt.’
‘Who’s hurt? Ronan?’
‘No. Rigby. The lad. You were right. We should never have gone back. He shot us.’
Now that I peered at him I could see a dark patch on his shoulder. He looked very pale.
‘I think he’s dying. And the pod’s about to blow. You have to help us.’
Did I? These men had kidnapped me. On the other hand, these men had saved my life. They hadn’t killed me. They’d brought me here and given me a fighting chance. As far as they could help me, they had. I should help them.
I took a quick look around but no one was watching. ‘Lead on.’
I followed him down the familiar forest path and there – exactly as it had been before, stood their pod. It looked no different. In fact, for them, it might only have been minutes.
But it was a pod. My ride home.
He said, ‘Door.’
Nothing happened.
More loudly he said, ‘Door.’
Nothing happened for a second or two and then it jerked open, taking two or three seconds to open fully. A small fug of acrid smoke rolled out with it.
I pushed him to one side and stood in the doorway.
The console was smoking. I could hear a fizzing and crackling behind the panels. Several live wires hung from the ceiling, sparking. The entire console was covered in red lights and I guessed the slurring noise was the computer trying to tell them all was not well.
The young lad – Rigby – lay against the far wall. The old man had obviously performed as much first aid as he was able to – the medkit lay almost empty nearby. He too was very white and there was a great deal of red, shiny blood.
The old man went to enter the pod but I held him back. This pod was about to blow. It might only have minutes left. The only reason we weren’t enveloped in a wall of sound as computers, klaxons, warning beeps and God knows what went off full blast was that there wasn’t enough power. I was certain the computer was trying to advocate immediate evacuation to a safe distance.
A safe distance meant a good long way away. When a pod blows, it doesn’t mess about. Anyone in the vicinity, walking their pigs, or looking for firewood, or indulging in a spot of hanky-panky in the woods would not survive.
I took a moment to think. I needed to prioritise. First was to get this pod away from here. Second was to get the young lad some urgent medical attention. Third was the same for the old man. There were lives at stake here. My personal feelings were not important.
I pushed the old man inside ahead of me. ‘Stay with him.’
Crossing to the console, I tried to clear my mind. I needed to make sense of the readings. There was power – otherwise the wires wouldn’t be shorting out like that, but was there enough power? Would attempting to initiate a jump be the final straw that finished the pod, the people inside and the immediate area?
There was only one way to find out. I set familiar coordinates, guessing at the date I wanted because there was no time to double check – or indeed check at all. A rather nasty hum was filling the air, rising in tone and volume.
A single thought pounded inside my head. I could come back. I could always come back.
I had a sudden thought and forced the door open again.
I caught the panic in the old man’s voice.
‘Where are you going? You can’t leave us.’
I had to leave something of myself behind. I couldn’t just disappear. If I could come back then it didn’t matter but if for some reason I couldn’t … I ripped off my stole – the brightly coloured one from the Persepolis assignment, now sadly faded, but very recognisable as mine, folded it neatly, and placed it, with the basket, in the middle of the path. I pulled the ribbons from my hair, coiled them up and left them for him as he had left them for me. I couldn’t take them anyway. I couldn’t take anything from this time. This was all I could do. I couldn’t write to him. This was the only message I could leave for him. If I left these things here – clearly visible – carefully folded … then, surely, he would know nothing bad had befallen me. I was terrified he would think I had run away. That I had disappeared as abruptly as I came. He would search for me. He would look everywhere and he’d never find me. What would he think? What would he do?
This is why we never get involved with contemporaries.
I turned and ran back into the pod. I’d done what I could and my duty now was to concentrate on the immediate problem. My hands flew across the console. I shut everything down, including life support. Whatever happened, we wouldn’t need it five minutes from now. There was no time left. We had to go now.
I said, ‘Brace yourself.’
He did.
I said, ‘Computer, initiate jump.’
Something, somewhere went bang. The lights flickered and went out. Apart from the red light show on the console, we were completely in the dark. I could only hope it was because the computer had shut down all inessential systems.
The floor heaved beneath my feet – it really shouldn’t do that – and the world went a kind of sludgy grey.
Worst. Landing. Ever. Worse even than the one made by Dieter and me all those years ago when we were caught in a Cretaceous landslide and fell off a cliff. It made Peterson’s worst efforts look like a fairy’s footsteps.
We hit the ground with a crash that threw me out of my chair and onto the floor. Locker doors flew open and the contents fell on top of us all. I rolled into a ball and the old man threw himself over the young lad. The only thing we could do was protect our heads and wait for everything to settle. Hanging wires spat sparks. Black smoke poured from underneath the console. Something else went bang. And then there was silence – which was most worrying of all.
I staggered to my feet, groped my way around the wall and threw the trip switch. The last few lights died. The pod was dead and now we were completely in the dark, but at least we weren’t about to blow up. At least, we probably weren’t about to blow up.
I said, ‘The door’s on an emergency circuit, but if I don’t get it open now then it may never open again. Stay put. Don’t make any hostile moves. We may have survived the crash only to be shot dead by the Security Section.’
I wasn’t joking.
I had no idea when we’d arrived. I’d aimed for about a month after Persepolis but haste, fear, panic, wonky pod – we could be anywhere at any time.
I hit the manual switch for the door.
It jerked open a few inches. I got my hands into the gap and heaved. It jerked another few inches. Just enough for me to squeeze through.
It was hurling down with rain. Typical. But I really hadn’t done too badly. It could have been a lot worse. I was quietly proud. We’d landed just outside Hawking and I was surrounded by a ring of security guards. All with weapons raised and none of them looking very friendly.
Evans shouted, ‘On the ground. Hands on your head. Now.’
I said, ‘It’s me.’
Markham said incredulously, ‘Max? What the hell?’
Behind me, black smoke was billowing from the open door. The old man was shouting for help.
I gave up. There’s only so much you can do in one day.
I sat down on the tarmac, put my hands on my head and said, ‘Medical emergency. Two men in there. Both wounded. Neither armed. No chance to decontaminate. Full medical precautions.’ And let the cold rain fall on my head and run down my face.
Markham was brilliant. He had men inside rendering first aid in seconds. He had Dieter inside the pod checking its status. He had me picked up and whirled off to Sick Bay before I could ask when I was, about Leon, or Peterson, or Matthew, or anyone.
Hunter met me at the door, suited and booted in the medical gear that always makes it very clear that if, by any chance, you have contracted anything unpleasant, you’re completely on your own.
‘Bloody hell, Max, where’s the rest of you?’
I had no idea what she was talking about. I look
ed down. Yes, two arms, two legs, everything seemed intact. I put that to one side.
I said, ‘Can I come back later? I need to jump again.’
‘Not a chance.’
‘But …’
I was wasting my breath. She shoved me in the scanner, perused the printout and shoved me in again.
‘Why didn’t you decontaminate?’
‘Unsafe pod.’
‘Well, there doesn’t seem to be anything terrible here. You’ll be in isolation for at least a week and I shall want blood and stool samples. Usual thing.’
She stopped and took in this year’s fashionable look in 1400. ‘Have you seen yourself at all recently?’
I shook my head.
There was a full-length mirror on the wall by Helen’s office. I’d often wondered why and assumed it was so you could check you were departing with the same number of limbs you came in with.
She pulled me over and I looked at myself. Bloody hell.
‘I don’t see the problem,’ I said, in a vain attempt to stem the medical onslaught. ‘You’ve been on at me to lose ten pounds since the day I walked through the door.’
‘Yes, ten pounds. Ten pounds would have been good. Max, you’ve lost stones.’
I had too. Whether through fresh air and exercise, or bloody hard work as I’d always thought of it, or a healthy vegetable-based diet and a complete absence of heavily sugared tea, I’d lost stones. Even my loose-fitting tunic couldn’t conceal it.
I looked at my plaited hair, slowly unravelling because I’d left my hair ribbons behind in 1400. I’d left a lot of things behind in 1400.
I said, ‘Bloody hell – there’s more of me back in the 15th century than there is here,’ and I wasn’t joking.
I could hear Dr Stone’s voice approaching.
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s get you into isolation.’
I asked if I could have a bath. Partly because, after a year, I really needed one, partly because I really wanted one, but mostly so I could be alone for a while. No one would begrudge me an hour in the bath after being away for so long and I needed time to think. I’d been catapulted into 1399 and now I’d been catapulted back home again.