by Jodi Taylor
He sighed. ‘That will be all, Dr Maxwell.’
I could just have put the whole episode down to bad luck. You can’t win them all. But for some reason, I just couldn’t let it go. The coordinates were correct. So why had we missed one of the most important events of the decade. Why had we landed in the wood?
The answer to that, obviously, was so that we could find the woodcutter. But why? What impact could he possibly have had on History?
None at all, was the answer to that one. Even without his wounded leg, his future was uncertain. The land on which his hut stood might have belonged to him, but not for much longer. A Norman overlord would be installed at William’s pleasure, and then their future would be uncertain indeed.
What about the son, Harald? That new-born baby, so limp and silent at his birth. Maybe he grew up – and what? Joined in Hereward’s rebellion in the Fens? No. Far too young.
Dr Dowson, our Librarian, and I searched and searched but there was nothing anywhere. I spent hours tracing family trees, chasing down obscure connections until late one night, alone in the dimly lit library, I let my head fall onto my arms and I must have dropped off because I was woken by Mrs Partridge, another one who rarely slept. She had a load of files under one arm.
I blinked and focused.
‘Working late, Dr Maxwell?’
I shook my head. ‘Private research.’
‘Ah.’ She peered at my data stack for a moment. ‘Oh, I see.’
She turned away and then turned back again.
‘Just a thought, Dr Maxwell, but have you considered not thinking like a historian?’ and she was gone before I could ask her what she meant.
I stared at the swirling stack of data. The woodcutter, Aelfric. The woodcutter’s son, Harald. I had tried every combination, every spelling, every date, every event … Nothing.
I flicked a finger to disperse the data and accidentally brought up the woodcutter’s wife and daughter. Alice and Aline. Alice Aline.
Something stirred.
I knew that name.
I rummaged amongst the data.
Alice Aline Fitzroy. Illegitimate daughter of Henry I and an unknown mistress. Alice. Aline.
With trembling fingers, I called up more data.
And there it was, all laid out in front of me. Generation after generation. Mrs Partridge was right and I’d been wrong. I’d thought it was all about either the woodcutter or his son – and it wasn’t. I’d been guilty of thinking like an historian. Something that doesn’t happen very often, according to Dr Bairstow.
Because it was Aline who was the important one. That big-eyed tot, peeping out from under the blanket. Who would become one of the most important women in English history. Pretty little Aline. Who would grow into a great beauty. So beautiful she would catch the eye of a king, Henry I. Although, admittedly, his eye did seem to have been caught by anything in a dress. Henry fathered a vast number of offspring, most of them illegitimate. But, he acknowledged them all, highborn and low.
The clue was in the name – and I’d nearly missed it because I was guilty of thinking like an historian and adopting the values of the time and disregarding the women.
Because in 1099, the adult Aline and Henry I produced an illegitimate daughter – Alice Aline Fitzroy, and she married Mathieu I de Montmorency and their child was Bouchard IV de Montmorency (who married the splendidly named Laurentia Henegouwen). And their child was Alice Montmorency who married the Earl of Leicester, and their child was – I could hardly believe it – Simon de Montfort.
The Simon de Montfort. The man himself. Sixth Earl of Leicester. The Father of the English Parliament. His successful rebellion against Henry III would enable him to call two Parliaments. Two of the most famous Parliaments in History. The first would curtail the absolute power of the king. The second would introduce the strange, new concept of selecting representatives from towns and villages. For the people to have their voices heard in Parliament.
Simon de Montfort, directly descended from little Aline, who, without a father to provide for her, would not have survived that bitter winter of 1066.
If we hadn’t walked that particular path on that particular day…
Sometimes, it isn’t all about kings or popes or battles or the big events. Sometimes, it’s just about the little people.
And that was why the jump had failed. Why we’d landed where we did. Except that it hadn’t failed. It had been a huge, an astounding, a dazzling success. Possibly one of the greatest successes St Mary’s had ever achieved. Although we hadn’t done it all by ourselves. It was History who had sent us to the wrong location. History had known we wouldn’t just step over the injured woodcutter and go on our way. As we should have done.
We’d been used before. History had used us to sort out the Mary Stuart muddle in 1567. And now Aline in 1066. Our actions then were part of History now. Bloody hell! This was serious stuff!
And what else was in store for us as History and St Mary’s inched their way towards a working relationship?
By making that one decision to save a life, we’d begun a series of events that culminated in the first hesitant steps towards the development of modern Parliament. St Mary’s had kick-started the beginnings of parliamentary democracy.
Our Christmas gift to the world.
Sadly, of course, with Parliament comes politicians.
Ah well, you can’t win them all…
From everyone at St Mary’s – Glaed Geol and Gesaelig Niw Gear. Waes Hael!
ROMAN HOLIDAY
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I wrote this story because – and don’t think I’m not embarrassed to admit this – I couldn’t work out how to lock the front door of my offspring’s flat in London. I was visiting, and pressure of work meant I had to be left alone for a day.
‘Not a problem,’ I said, inaccurately as it turned out. ‘I’ll do an hour or so on my short story, and then go for a walk in the park over the road.’
‘Fine,’ they said. The front door slammed and away they went.
I wrote for an hour or so and then thought I’d get some fresh air. There was the usual exit routine – was I wearing matching shoes? (I did once go out with one white shoe and one blue shoe, and not one of my so-called friends thought to mention it to me.) Was everything that should be zipped up actually zipped up? Coat buttoned the right way? And so on.
Passing every test with flying colours, I let myself out of the front door and it had one of those funny hotel locks that I’ve never been able to get the hang of, and I couldn’t lock the damned thing. I tried everything. Key turning, knob twisting, latch pressing, bad language – any and all combinations of all those – and got nowhere.
Defeated, I retreated back inside, and tried to lock myself in from the inside – something I inadvertently do all the time. That didn’t work either. I wandered around the flat for a while, alternately embarrassed and annoyed with myself. I thought I’d watch a little TV, but there were around twenty-five remotes on the coffee table and I was terrified of accidentally switching on the oven, or reprogramming the central heating or causing aircraft to drop from the sky. So, lacking anything else to do, I picked up my short story again. I didn’t have my laptop with me and so I wrote the whole thing longhand. It’s about twelve thousand words, I think, although it seemed a lot more than that at the time. I was still writing some six hours later when they returned home and laughed at me for about forty-five minutes.
Anyway, that’s how it came to be written. The why is much simpler. Sometimes, I have a picture or a sentence in my mind that forms the basis for the whole book. For instance, in A Second Chance, I had a very clear picture of Max standing at an easel, putting up her hair, turning around and saying, ‘Where’s that cup of tea then?’
In A Trail Through Time, it was Leon tossing a coin and the two of them watching it rise into the air, winking in the sunlight.
In this story, ‘Roman Holiday’, it was of Markham saying, ‘You utter bastards.’ W
hy he was saying that and to whom, I had no idea, so I had to sit and work out the whole story backwards. And then wrote it all out longhand. And then listened to my nearest and dearest laughing their heads off at me. It’s really tough being a writer.
Roman Holiday
The word on the street was that we had a project on Cleopatra. Everyone was talking about it. This would be part of the Ancient Rome assignment and everyone wanted to be involved.
The bar was packed. I’m not sure why I mention that, because here at St Mary’s, the bar is always packed.
We work for the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory. We investigate major historical events in contemporary time. You might as well call it time travel. Everyone else does.
Anyway, the bar was packed. Everyone was discussing Cleopatra, including, regrettably, Dr Dowson, our librarian and archivist, and Professor Rapson, head of Research and Development, both of whom can seldom agree on the date, let alone anything else. The discussion followed its inevitable course and they were eventually separated by their respective departments and led away to opposite ends of the room.
Peterson and I, who knew all about the Cleopatra assignment and had already made our recommendations, resumed our interrupted discussion over whether it was possible to smuggle a baby into a birthing chamber concealed inside a warming pan. Chief Farrell, that still, small voice of calm in the insanity that is St Mary’s, remarked that since St Mary’s didn’t actually possess a baby, it was, at the moment, impossible to be certain one way or the other. And yes, borrowing one without the owner’s consent was, as they say, contra-indicated. In the vigorous debate that followed, none of us saw Markham and Roberts exchange glances and slip quietly out of the bar.
I suspected something was going on. People fell mysteriously silent as I walked past. Or rushed around clutching imperfectly concealed bundles of something or other. Data stacks were hurriedly flattened when I entered a room. Both Peterson, my fellow historian and partner in crime, and Major Guthrie, the head of our hard-worked security section, reported similar incidents, but as Guthrie remarked, although he was certain St Mary’s was up to something, behaviour here was so bizarre anyway, it was difficult to tell.
Three days later, Markham and Roberts unveiled their surprise.
They’d chosen their moment well. Almost everyone was assembled in the Great Hall, even our Director, Dr Bairstow, who had Clerk’s and Van Owen’s report on the unfortunate death of the MP William Huskisson under his arm, and was enquiring why there wasn’t an historian in his unit who could spell the word amonaly. Anonoly. Amono – irregularity.
Since I was stumped for an answer to this one, I was, initially, quite pleased to have a distraction. A blast of static-laden recorded music resolved itself into a fanfare of trumpets, followed by a mighty roll of drums. Startled, I turned to see Mr Roberts, my youngest historian, standing on the half-landing, staggering slightly under the weight of a rolled carpet slung over one shoulder.
My first horrified thought was that he was naked and I hadn’t had my lunch yet. A second glance, however, revealed a very inadequately secured loincloth. I gave private thanks to the god of historians that gravity seemed to have taken the day off. A magnificent torque, obviously made of tin foil, hung across his chest, and a thick, black wig swung around his face.
‘Bloody hell,’ said someone. ‘Roberts is a eunuch.’
‘No, I’m not,’ he said, crossly. In what he fondly imagined was a deep and resonantly impressive voice, he squeaked, ‘I am Robertis, body servant of the Egyptian queen, great Cleopatra, come to pay her respects to mighty Caesar and entreat his favour in choosing the personnel for the upcoming Cleopatra assignment of which, of course, we know absolutely nothing.’
He began, precariously, to make his way down the stairs towards a stunned Dr Bairstow – or mighty Caesar, as he should probably be known for the purposes of this tale.
He – Robertis, not mighty Caesar, obviously – was sweating profusely under the weight of the carpet hefted over his shoulder. I recognised it as the moth-eaten old thing from Wardrobe. I shot an accusing glance at Mrs Enderby, who refused to catch my eye.
He so nearly made it. He was only two steps from safety when his legs buckled. He fell to his knees, clutching at his loincloth, whose fastenings had, as predicted, proved unequal to their task. The carpet slipped from his shoulder, hit the oak stairs with considerable impact, and fell down into the Hall, unrolling as it went, to deposit Cleopatra, or Mr Markham as he’s sometimes known, at the feet of mighty Caesar.
I should state now: kids, don’t try this at home, because it never happened. If you roll someone in a carpet then, thirty seconds later, they’re unconscious through lack of oxygen. Or heatstroke. Or whiffy on carpet-cleaning fluid fumes. Trust me – I’m an historian.
I know that in the film, an immaculate Cleopatra lies appealingly on a priceless oriental rug, batting kohled eyelashes before seducing the most powerful man in the known world, but our Mr Markham, lying semi-conscious and drenched in sweat, hadn’t quite pulled it off.
You had to hand it to him though, he’d made a real effort.
All right, at some point, his wig had come off and was now glued to his sweaty face like one of those creatures from Alien, but hairier. His historically inaccurate diaphanous trousers had come horribly adrift, giving anyone who cared to look a first-class view of his Homer Simpson underpants. But it was his bosoms that were the star of the show.
God knew where he’d got the bra from. One of Nurse Hunter’s, presumably. I hoped she hadn’t been wearing it at the time, although with Markham, you never knew. She wouldn’t want it back anyway, covered as it now was in sequins and glitter, and festooned with Christmas tinsel.
He’d obviously taken time and trouble over the composition of his bosoms, discarding the traditional favourites of rugby socks, tissues, or oranges, in favour of two half-lemons, which, as he later unacceptably explained to an unmoved and unmoving Dr Bairstow, were just brilliant for that authentic nipple-look, sir.
That, however, was for later. At the moment, he was lying in a less-than-alluring heap, purple-faced and gasping for breath, covered in an unbelievable amount of greyish carpet fluff which had adhered itself to every available inch of sweaty, naked skin and showed no signs of letting go.
You want to look away, but you just can’t do it. Even as I watched, one of his bosoms, obviously dislodged by the impact, fell from its holster and rolled gently across the floor, until Dr Bairstow stopped it with his foot.
Silence fell.
St Mary’s held its breath.
Even Robertis seemed rooted to the spot.
Mr Markham, however, was made of stern stuff.
He raised himself on one elbow, reached out a trembling hand, and exclaimed blearily, ‘Will you look at that. Some plonker is standing on my bosom.’
‘Yes,’ said Dr Bairstow, icily. ‘That would be me.’
And even as Retribution reached out for him, Markham had to have the last word.
‘You’re doing it beautifully, sir.’
And wisely passed out.
* * *
I think it must have been this unnerving manifestation of St Mary’s collective boredom that prompted Dr Bairstow to move the schedule along a little. A few days later, Peterson and I were called to his office, handed the familiar file folders, and told to get on with it. And to take Mr Markham with us. I didn’t enquire, but I definitely got the impression that bringing him back was a bit of an optional extra.
Chief Farrell performed his usual miracles, announced Pod Three was fit for purpose, and that it was a shame the same couldn’t be said of the crew.
I held a mini-briefing in my office. Present were Peterson and Van Owen, representing the History department. Major Guthrie and Markham represented – they said – the more stable element at St Mary’s, which came as a complete surprise to everyone else because we never knew we had one. Mrs Enderby from Wardrobe was there to advise on c
ostume and coach us on the wearing thereof, and Professor Rapson and Dr Dowson prepared to argue each other to death in the interests of historical accuracy.
‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘Thank you all for coming. This is the first stage of our Ancient Rome assignment and it’s a good one. I’m sure it won’t come as a complete surprise to anyone. Caesar and Cleopatra. 44BC. Ancient Rome.’
A stir of anticipation ran around the room. Scratchpads were opened up and we got stuck in.
‘In another of his moves to become, effectively, the sole ruler of the Roman Empire, Gaius Julius Caesar has invited his bit on the side, Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, to stay with him Rome. He’s the coming man. He’s a cocky self-publicist. He’s arrogant and insensitive. He’s installed his mistress – that’s Cleopatra, as so vividly brought to life by Mr Markham just recently – in his own home. His wife, Calpurnia, who, famously, is above reproach, is still in residence, so only the gods know what his home life must be like at the moment.
‘It doesn’t matter much, however, because we’re only six weeks or so away from the infamous Ides of March which is when he gets his comeuppance. Twenty-three times, actually, just as he’s poised to take the final step to absolute power. Cleopatra will flee to Egypt, taking her son Caesarion with her. Later, she’ll shack up with Mark Anthony, lose the Battle of Actium, and commit suicide with the probably unwilling participation of an asp or two.
‘We won’t be around for that, however. Our assignment is simply to observe the crucial run up to his assassination, gauge the mood of the people, and, if possible, catch a glimpse of the fabled Queen of the Nile.’
‘And return to St Mary’s, unscathed,’ muttered Guthrie.
‘Yes. And that, of course,’ I said quickly, glossing over the fact that sometimes, that doesn’t always happen. Quite rarely happens, actually. All right – not at all. However, there’s always a first time and we live in hope.