And the Rest Is History

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Four assignments altogether,’ she said, ‘and two months in which to complete them, which shouldn’t be a problem.’

  Yes, typical North. Grieving colleagues, murder and kidnap weren’t even a blip on her radar. On the other hand, bracing unsentimentality was just what we needed.

  ‘The first is the shipwreck of Harold Godwinson and his house arrest under Duke William of Normandy. The second will be the oath-taking ceremony at Bayeux when he swears to support William’s claim to the throne in order to gain his freedom. The third is the Battle of Stamford Bridge against Tostig and Harald Hardrada, and the last is the big finish at Hastings.

  She began to bring up images on the screen.

  ‘There are two main players. Harold Godwinson, Earl of Wessex, and Duke William of Normandy – William the Conqueror…’

  ‘William the Bastard,’ murmured Sykes.

  North swept on unheeding. ‘Edward the Confessor, King of England, has no son. William and his fellow Normans firmly believe that Edward, notoriously pro-Norman after his time there in exile, has promised William the throne after his death. Whether he has or not is immaterial because the succession is not his to control. Primogeniture does not yet exist and under Saxon law, the next king is selected by the Witan – the council of leading nobles.

  ‘Anyway, in 1064, Harold, for reasons which have never been entirely clear, embarks on a sea voyage. Norman chroniclers – from their position as victors, of course – claim that Harold was sent by Edward to do fealty to William, thus confirming William would be king after his death. This is generally considered to be unlikely. Some say the purpose of his journey was to secure the release of members of his family held hostage after Earl Godwin’s revolt in 1051. The Saxons will maintain he was simply on a fishing expedition and the boat was blown off course.

  ‘Whatever the reason, we do know he left from Bosham and was shipwrecked off Ponthieu. According to the law at the time, any victims of shipwreck were the property of the Count of Ponthieu, Guy I. It might be that initially, Guy was unaware of the status of his prisoner but, somehow, word gets to William – his overlord. Guy is subject to William’s commands and William, probably unable to believe his good luck, makes his commands known immediately. Harold is carted off to Guy’s castle at Beaurain; William arrives to claim him. And that’s where we come in. Back to you, Max.’

  She sat down.

  ‘Thank you, Miss North. We’ll take two pods – Numbers Eight and Five. There will be three members of Security to accompany us, one of whom will be Mr Markham. You have a week or so to get yourselves off to Mrs Enderby to be kitted out. Tunics, hose and cloaks for the men. Longer tunics and cloaks for the women. Hair in long braids please, ladies, and covered with a veil. Doctor Dowson will provide background briefing and language tapes. A few words of Old French will be useful.’

  ‘What’s the weather?’ enquired Bashford.

  ‘No idea. At the moment we only know that the shipwreck took place in spring or early summer. Mr Atherton and Miss Prentiss have volunteered to act as Pathfinders. They’ll hop about until they find the date and report back to us. Remember that whatever the season, Norman halls are dark, draughty and smoky and dress accordingly.

  ‘Once we have the coordinates, We’ll land at Beaurain and mingle with the crowds. This is an important day for Guy – he has something William wants. And it’s a more than important day for William – his enemy has been delivered into his hands. Justice is a public affair – the actual details of the deal will be thrashed out in private, but handing over Harold to William will be done in public. Very politely and with a great deal of ceremony, and there won’t be even a hint that he’s a prisoner and a hostage to his own fortune. Everyone will smile. Hands will be clasped and wine will be drunk, but make no mistake, this is the day that Harold – and ultimately England – are stitched up for all time. With luck, right in front of our eyes.

  ‘Are there any questions?’

  People shook their heads. Our briefings weren’t normally this subdued.

  ‘I propose,’ I said, ‘that since we have two main protagonists, namely William of Normandy and Harold Godwinson, we divide ourselves into two teams for these assignments. One team will focus on Harold’s part in these events and the other on William’s. In-depth observations, please – appearance, clothes, mannerisms, actions, motives, policies, everything you can think of. It will, I think, be interesting to observe the same events from two opposing points of view. Does anyone have any particular favourite?’

  North immediately volunteered for William – not least, I suspected, because she was always telling us one of her ancestors had been at Hastings. On the winning side, obviously. Sykes signed up for Harold. Bashford went with Sykes – no surprise there. Clerk wanted William as well, and Prentiss and Atherton were the Pathfinders.

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, and it was. I always hesitate to use the expression well-balanced to describe anything related to the History Department, but they were two good teams and with a senior historian on each. I was, of course, ignoring Peterson’s absence. He could join us if he wished. I wondered if he would wish to. What would I do if he left? And what would I do if he never forgave me?

  I pushed that thought out of my head and returned to the well-trodden path of procedure.

  ‘Right, Team William will wait outside, get shots of his arrival – numbers, horses, the grand entrance, and then follow him into the hall. I’m optimistic about it being open to the public. Count Guy is doing his overlord a favour and he’ll want everyone to know that.

  Team Harold will be inside. I’ll want shots of the Hall layout and those present – Count Guy, his clothes, his entourage, others present. You all know what to do. If, for some reason, Team William can’t get in, Team Harold will split. Bashford and Sykes will stay on Harold and I’ll take William myself. I particularly want details of William and Harold’s first meeting. How they react to each other. Will they leave at once or is there a feast? Does William treat Harold as an equal? When they leave, how is he mounted? Is he a guest or a prisoner? Remember people, we’re witnessing the opening stages of events that still impact on us today. Any questions? OK, that’s it. Thank you, everyone.’

  I dismissed them all, sent Rosie Lee home early, worked quietly for a couple of hours, and then went back to my silent room. I closed the door behind me, crossed to Matthew’s bedroom, and opened the door. The very emptiness of the room leaped out at me. There was his cot. Empty. His giraffe quilt was neatly folded at the bottom. There was the small chest of drawers with his clothes. His brush and comb sat on top. I picked up the brush. I could see dark hairs twisted among the bristles. I replaced it carefully. His ball lay on the rug. I picked it up. It was made of some soft, furry material, warm and brightly coloured. And slightly sucked. He loved his ball. I put it next to his brush. The room smelled of baby powder. It was very quiet in here. I switched out the light and closed the door.

  I took a shower, pulled on one of Leon’s T-shirts and went to bed, where I lay and watched the moon travel past the window, and refused to give way.

  And that was the end of the second day.

  I was up at dawn the next morning, because Leon hadn’t said what time on Friday and, as far as I was concerned, Friday was any time after midnight on Thursday.

  The first thing that happened was that Dieter banned me not only from Hawking, from outside, as well. I’d bounded down there, bacon sandwich in one hand, mug of tea in the other, and stood around waiting. I was prepared to wait all day and night if necessary. I was determined that whenever Leon turned up, I would be here. I would be the first thing he and Matthew would see when they exited the pod.

  I turned around to find Dieter standing behind me, his early morning coffee clutched in one hand.

  ‘Max, go back to the main building.’

  ‘But I…’

  ‘There’s no need for you to be here. We’ve no idea when Leon will be back. You can’t stay here all day. It’s freezin
g.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No. You can’t be here. Go back to your department. Find something to do. The time will go so much more quickly. You do yourself no good at all by waiting here. I promise you – as soon as the pod materialises, you’ll get the word. I’ll call you myself. They’ll take a minute or two to shut things down and decontaminate and then, when they open the door, you’ll be waiting for them.’

  ‘Dieter…’

  ‘Max, I’m doing you a favour. Don’t make me call Dr Bairstow.’

  I trailed back down the long corridor. He was right. It was barely dawn. The security shifts were changing. I looked for Markham but couldn’t see him. Perhaps he was still with Peterson.

  I went to my office, pulled my in-tray towards me, and lost myself in the comforting routine of work.

  Dr Bairstow bombarded me with emails – all demanding instant responses, and when I next had time to look up, it was past noon. The morning had gone and there was still no message from Hawking. I tried to pick up my work again, but my concentration had fled. I tidied my desk and then went back to my room. I would get Matthew’s things ready for him. His clothes would be dirty. He would need clean stuff. I hesitated a long time over whether to lay out a blue babysuit or an orange one. It should be orange, surely, in honour of Leon who had brought him back safely. I laid out his clean clothes, changed my mind, chose blue instead, and then thought, idiot – he’ll have to stay in Sick Bay for a major check-up, so I put away the babysuits and pulled out his pyjamas. Unable to choose between Superman or Mr Happy, and in the end, gripped by a sudden panic that Leon would return and I wouldn’t be there, I unzipped my old sports bag and shoved in nearly everything Matthew owned. I would choose properly when he was safely in Sick Bay. When I could hold him again. Feel him wriggling on my lap. Feel his strong little back.

  He held out his arms to me…

  Shouldering the bag, I went downstairs again, walking around the gallery, looking down into the Great Hall.

  We were planning our four assignments more or less simultaneously. The Hall – the traditional historians’ working area – was crowded with untidy, paper-strewn tables. There were whiteboards covered in scribbled notes in different colours, with maps, diagrams, and flowcharts pinned to the walls. On the face of it, there was chaos everywhere, but I could see a clear division between assignments. Everything relating to the shipwreck was over by the stairs; the oath-taking ceremony was in the corner by the library; Stamford Bridge was down the middle and Hastings over against the wall. We were very busy and in a week’s time, we were going to be even busier.

  I put down the bag and sat on the stairs, watching the History Department trail back from lunch, every one of them clutching a large mug of tea to see them through the rigours of the afternoon. Or until the next official tea break, anyway.

  The minutes inched by. I kept checking my com, terrified it had suddenly developed a fault. I imagined Dieter trying to contact me and giving up. Suppose Leon and Matthew arrived and I wasn’t there. I gripped my hands together and tried to remain calm.

  Clerk looked up, saw me, and said something to Sykes. She trotted off, returning a minute later with a mug of tea for me. I thanked her because it was a kind thought, and I was a bag of nerves.

  She sat down beside me. She didn’t say anything; she just sat beside me. After a minute or so, Atherton put down his file and joined us. North looked up, hesitated a moment, and then she too climbed the stairs and sat in front of Atherton.

  One by one, they all stopped working and came to join us. As their department head, I should have something to say about this lack of productivity. As Max, I was grateful for their silent support.

  It wasn’t just the History Department. Dr Dowson, with much groaning and assistance from Miss Lingoss, lowered himself and sat down. He was joined a second later by Professor Rapson and his entire team. Astonishingly, none of them were on fire.

  Mrs Enderby appeared, trailing the Wardrobe Department behind her. They all joined us and now the stairs were completely blocked. I was surrounded by St Mary’s.

  Dr Bairstow, limping around the gallery, contemplated us.

  ‘Please reassure me you are not all about to start grooming each other.’

  It was exactly the right thing to say. I felt my heart lift a little.

  And then we all sat in silence and watched the clock.

  The afternoon wore on. My focus changed. As the hours passed, I thought of Friday as any time before midnight. Half of me knew that Leon would return. He had said he would bring back Matthew and he would. Leon was a man who kept his word. I knew that. But there was no sign of him and there should be. He was in a pod. He could choose to return at any time he chose. Why was he making me wait? I looked at the clock. Three o’clock. A good time to appear. Three o’clock was exactly the time I myself would have chosen. Lunch over and done with. It was the middle of the afternoon. If anyone ever has an afternoon appointment, three o’clock is always the time of choice. Now would be the perfect time for him to return.

  No call from Dieter. I checked my com. It was working perfectly. I looked at the clock. The minute hand moved inexorably on.

  I was running through the contents of Matthew’s bag again and wondering if I’d forgotten anything, when Dieter spoke in my ear.

  ‘Max. They’re outside Hawking.’

  I was up and running.

  They were already exiting the pod when I arrived. I skidded to a halt and watched as, exhausted and dirty, the Time Police clambered out of their pod, followed by Guthrie and Grey. Dieter had everything organised. They were whisked away to Sick Bay where our new doctor would be waiting.

  No one was looking at me. The last of them trickled away and not one of them had looked at me. Not one. Not even Guthrie or Grey. They hadn’t found him. I could see it in their faces. Even worse, there was no sign of Leon.

  I stood outside Hawking on the frosty pan, my breath puffing around me and clutching my stupid sports bag. Was it possible…? Was it possible that in addition to losing Matthew I had now lost Leon as well? I stared at the big, black pod. It had been designed to put the fear of God into people and it was certainly having that effect on me.

  I could see Dieter waving his people away, leaving me standing alone. I heard the last footsteps. A door banged somewhere. No one had said a word. Why had they left me here?

  Of course. My brain was really not functioning today. Leon would wait inside so we could have a few minute’s privacy. To be together again.

  I climbed inside.

  Leon stood in the middle of the pod, facing the ramp. Facing me.

  Alone.

  Leon stood alone. No Matthew in his arms. It wasn’t until that moment that I realised how completely I’d believed in him. He’d promised he would bring Matthew back. And now – despite everything he’d said, despite all the promises he’d made – he’d come back without him.

  I made myself look at him. He looked terrible. Dirty, grim-faced, worn out.

  I wanted to say ‘Where is he?’ but no words would come.

  I remember I looked all around the pod. I don’t know why. It wasn’t likely Leon would have left him lying under the console or put him away in one of the lockers.

  Still we looked at each other, and then, slowly, he stepped to one side and I saw he’d been standing in front of a small boy.

  I stared, first at Leon and then at the boy. Who the hell was this? I don’t know what I thought. That Leon, unable to find Matthew, had brought back some stray kid as a kind of consolation prize?

  I saw a very little boy. Not attractive in any way. Leon had wrapped him in a blanket, but enough of him was exposed for me to see he was filthy, with badly grazed knees and elbows. His feet were blue with cold and badly burned in places. Sullen eyes peered out at me from underneath thickly matted hair. There was an overw-helming aroma of wet soot and urine. I put his age at around five or six years old. If called upon to hazard a guess, I would have said he was
a chimney sweep’s boy from sometime in the early 19th century.

  We stared at each other. I took in his stick-like limbs, the calluses on his hands, feet, knees and elbows. His left arm looked oddly bent. From the way he was cradling it, I wondered if it was broken. Even from here I could see he had lice. And fleas. His skin was rubbed red-raw in some places and flaking away in others.

  The silence rolled on and on as the two of us stared suspiciously at each other, and then Leon said quietly, ‘Max, this is Matthew.’

  I dragged my gaze from the filth-encrusted boy in front of me and croaked, ‘What did you say?’

  ‘This is Matthew. This is our son.’

  I’m not proud of what I did next. I suppose I could say I didn’t believe him, but that wouldn’t be true. My own eyes glared back at me from under that shock of matted hair so dark with dirt and soot that I couldn’t have told you what colour it was. Deep down, I knew Leon would never lie about anything so important to both of us, but I couldn’t accept it. I didn’t want to accept it. My Matthew was a baby. He could barely sit up on his own. He smiled and blew bubbles. He held out his arms to me. He always held out his arms to me. He was his Mummy’s Boy. He wasn’t this … this…

  I became aware I was still holding his bag, full of little vests and babysuits and Mr Happy pyjamas and nappies and a dozen other useless items that would never be needed again. Leon had brought Matthew back, but my baby was gone for ever.

  Leon said, ‘Max…’

  I jerked back to him, tried to speak, and failed. I let the bag drop to the floor where it landed with a thump. The noise broke the spell. For the first time in my life, I deliberately ran away. I bolted.

  Someone shouted something behind me. I didn’t stop. I was desperate for time and space to think. I was out of that pod like a whippet, gasping in the cold air. I didn’t get far, which was just as well because I had no idea where I was going. I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. I ran to the lake and sought the shelter of the densely planted willows, their hanging branches just beginning to show green. I pushed my way through them into the soft, filtered light and away from the real world and the ugly things happening there. I hung on to a trunk, feeling my world reel around me.