And the Rest Is History

by Jodi Taylor

  I stared thoughtfully at the screen, wondering what to do next. We were still well concealed and even if someone should come across us, there was no way they could get in. We could risk a jump, but there were people all around us. There was a very real possibility they’d get sucked into the vacuum of our leaving. We have a safety line in Hawking for a reason.

  ‘We’ll stay a while,’ I said. ‘Let’s see what happens next.’

  All around the little glade, the green grass had turned red with blood. I wondered how long the wounded would be left here and the answer was – not very long at all. The standard of medical care depended upon whose side you were on. Saxons who could walk were helped to their feet and taken away. Those who couldn’t were carried on makeshift litters made of cloaks and spears.

  Those who weren’t Saxons were despatched on the spot. Even a young lad who couldn’t have been much more than fourteen or fifteen. He wasn’t that badly hurt, but a wound in his leg prevented him running away. He saw his death approaching and began to cry. A blank-faced Saxon stood over him, said a few words – perhaps in consolation, or perhaps a prayer to the gods. The boy’s final shriek was cut short. He spasmed once and then lay still.

  And once again, we were watching people die. Real people. It’s what we do. We wrap it up in all sorts of fancy phrases – investigating major historical events in contemporary time is our favourite, but, basically, we watch people die. We sell it to ourselves on the grounds they would have died anyway. That our being here makes very little difference – or shouldn’t do. That in our time they’ve been dead for x-hundred years. That it’s always important to have an accurate record of what really happened. Before those who write History – nearly always the victors – put their own particular spin on events. And all that’s good, I know it is. But not when you’re watching a young man, a boy even, white faced, teeth clenched in agony, curled around a mortal wound and watching his own life’s blood pump into the thirsty earth on a lovely summer’s day, as the birds sing in the trees around him.

  It takes a hell of a lot of getting used to. I haven’t managed it yet. And actually, would that be a good thing? Do I want to be able to watch, dispassionately, as another life departs this world? I don’t think I do. So I suppose I just have to put up with it.

  I was putting up with it now.

  Sykes drew in her breath with a hiss. I put a hand on her shoulder and said, ‘Keep filming.’

  She did, and it was worth it. Because someone shouted suddenly and, before we realised what was happening, Harold Godwinson himself strode through the trees.

  We knew it was him, because he was preceded by his personal banner, the Fighting Man. He’d discarded his mail and wore only a sweaty and bloodstained tunic. His legs were bare and his hair dark with sweat. He stood in the centre of the glade, hands on his hips, staring about him. As far as I could see, he appeared unscathed. His mouth set in a grim line as he surveyed the two piles of dead bodies – Vikings on the far side of the clearing, and the Saxons, neatly laid out on the other.

  North was nearly falling over herself trying to get all the cameras focused on him.

  ‘He looks older,’ said Bashford, zooming in.

  ‘He looks ill,’ said North.

  I agreed. And I could hazard a guess as to the cause. Whatever brave face he was putting on for England, in his heart, Harold was a perjured man – an oath-breaker – and he knew it. It wasn’t sitting easily on his conscience.

  Kings are not supposed to have a conscience. It’s not a luxury they could afford. Medieval kings had two simple tasks. To safeguard the realm and to ensure the succession. Nothing complicated, but failure to do one or both usually resulted in catastrophe.

  The very unwar-like Edward II lost humiliatingly to the Scots at Bannockburn and was only just able to force himself to father an heir. He ended his days supposedly impaled upon a red-hot poker.

  Richard II – son and grandson of mighty men – was weak, fickle and childless. Eventually it cost him his throne.

  Henry VI was pious, mentally frail, lost most of the English possessions in France, and was very surprised to find he’d fathered an heir. Popular opinion reckoned that, actually, he hadn’t. Henry too was overthrown. Twice, in fact.

  And what about King Stephen? He wasn’t the rightful heir – that was his cousin, Mathilda. Stephen had two excellent qualifications for the job – he wasn’t a woman and his name wasn’t Mathilda, but he foundered because he couldn’t live up to the popular image of a medieval king which, basically, was to be the biggest bastard in the country. Stephen’s problem was that he was just too nice, which was not what people looked for in their king. His ability to listen patiently and sensibly to other people’s point of view all but wrecked the kingdom. His weakness and lack of resolution caused his uncle’s system of administration, so patiently assembled over the previous reign, to fall apart in what is always known as ‘The Anarchy’, and the country foundered. Not surprisingly, after his death, the crown went back to Mathilda’s line. I personally always felt the country would have done much better to have stuck with Mathilda, who would cheerfully separate any man from his testicles as soon look at him, thus easily fulfilling one of the two requirements for the job of king – conscienceless brutality – but she was a woman and therefore not eligible.

  Of course, you could go too far. Edward III overdid things slightly when it came to heirs and had too many sons. The family fragmented into the houses of York and Lancaster and gave us the Wars of the Roses.

  Or what about Henry II’s boys? Young Henry, Richard the Lionheart, Geoffrey and John happily schemed and betrayed their father and each other without a second thought.

  So basically, all a king had to do was keep the realm safe and father an heir. Job done. Recent monarchs have added waving to the list, but let’s face it – it’s still not that difficult. The point I’m circumnavigating is that having a conscience is a luxury kings can’t afford. As opposed to politicians and bankers who could do with having one inserted and yet appear to be complete strangers to the concept. From looking at him now, however, it would seem King Harold was having trouble with his.

  His hair had darkened and it seemed to me there was less of it. Although that might simply have been helmet hair. He looked exhausted but, to be fair, he’d had a strenuous week. It was the look in his eyes that gave him away. He had the look of a man whose inner voices gave him no rest.

  Sykes stirred and I was conscious that things were getting very hot and stuffy inside the pod. I wished they’d get a move on and leave.

  ‘Suppose they decide to stay up here?’ said Sykes, wiping sweat off her face with her sleeve. ‘It’s cool, shady and pleasant. That’s why we we’re here.’

  ‘We could use the sonic scream,’ suggested Bashford.

  The sonic scream is brilliant. Some time ago it was discovered that if you broadcast at a low frequency, only teenagers can hear it. Normal people aren’t affected. It induces feelings of discomfort and slight nausea. Not unnaturally, the teenagers don’t like it, so they move on. They don’t know why they’re moving on – they just do. I believe this is now illegal, but Professor Rapson and the Technical Section never allow little things like that to stop them, so we have something similar installed in our pods. We usually keep it for hostile animals and suchlike, but it certainly works on humans, too.

  Sadly, the effects can be a little unpredictable. On one occasion we’d caused a herd of Roman bullocks to stampede, causing massive damage to private property, and then, not content with that, we’d gone on to shatter every pane of glass in Hawking.

  I was weighing up the pros and cons of activating it with so many seriously wounded people still around when Sykes said, ‘Hang on, who’s this? Look.’

  A rider on a sweat-drenched horse was thundering up the hill towards us, shouting as he came. Every man turned to see what was happening. Most of them drew their swords. Two or three stepped in front of the king.

  He reined in so
hard his horse sat back on its haunches, foam flying. Flinging himself from his horse before it had even stopped moving, he shouted again, looking wildly about him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Sykes, adjusting the cameras and turning up the sound.

  ‘No,’ I said, in disbelief. ‘We couldn’t be that lucky.’

  ‘Lucky?’ said Bashford, and then realisation dawned. ‘Oh my God. Oh my God. Quick, turn up the sound.’

  The messenger was standing, hand on his knees, struggling for breath and trying to talk at the same time. Someone passed him a wineskin, but he waved it aside, grabbing a man by his arm and speaking urgently. The man pointed at Harold, standing quietly at one side of the clearing, hands still on hips. The messenger hastened over, flung himself on his knees in front of his king, speaking fast and gesturing south.

  Yes, we really were that lucky. I couldn’t believe it. He was gabbling so fast that we couldn’t make out the words, but we didn’t have to. We all knew what this was about. I was watching Harold’s face. I was watching the face of a man feeling his kingdom tremble beneath his feet.

  It couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

  Duke William had landed.

  Every man here had only nineteen days to live.

  It seemed strange to exit the pod and not find Leon waiting for me, but I pushed that thought aside. I was full of plans. We had three full weeks before the next assignment. Yes, there were reports to write and presentations to plan, but I had three weeks for me and Matthew to get to know each other a little better. Perhaps we could have some fun in the improving weather. I had been planning things out in my mind. I had to be careful. His life had been so narrow and miserable that almost anything was a treat, but I had to take care not to overwhelm him. Perhaps a trip to the zoo. Or we could go shopping and buy him some new clothes. I was surprised to find that the ones I’d bought him were already showing signs of wear and tear. And he seemed to be outgrowing his jeans. They were flapping around his ankles. I couldn’t believe it. He’d only had them a little while. I made a mental note to instruct him to stop growing.

  We decontaminated and, led by North, everyone left the pod and trailed through Hawking on their way to Sick Bay. I checked over the console, pulled my bag from the locker, and made to follow them.

  Dieter entered, grinned at me, and began to shut things down. ‘Now then, Max. Everything OK?’

  I smiled at him and woke up in Sick Bay.

  Three birds with one stone.

  This was a strange new world. No Helen. No Hunter. My head hurt. I couldn’t focus properly. Shapes swam around, hurting my eyes until I gave up and closed them again.

  And opened them. It was night-time. A night light burned above my head. Which still hurt, but now my body had joined the party as well. Peterson sat nearby. His face was in shadow but, even so, I’d never seen him look this bad. He hadn’t shaved and deep lines had etched themselves across his face. And his arm was in a sling again.

  Three birds with one stone.

  I closed my eyes again.

  And opened them again and now it was morning.

  Peterson was still here. I turned my head on the pillow and was hit with a huge wave of nausea. I just had time to croak a warning. He seized a basin and saved us both.

  Someone wiped my face and hands and I closed my eyes again.

  And opened them again. This time for good. I felt much better although I suspected I owed a lot of that to chemical assistance.

  Peterson was still here. He saw me looking at him, and grabbed for the bowl again.

  I tried to utter a reassurance, and he put down the bowl and picked up a cup with a straw.

  ‘Sip slowly.’

  Obediently, I took two or three small sips of something sweet.

  ‘Can you see me? Can you hear me?’

  I nodded very carefully.

  He disappeared. I assumed he’d gone for Hunter, but he returned with Dr Stone, who dropped into a chair beside the bed. ‘Hello, Max. How are you feeling?’

  I nodded again because talking was just too much effort.

  He looked at Peterson, standing at the foot of my bed.

  People laugh about scattered thoughts, but it’s true. My thoughts were all over the place. Every time I tried to get a grip on something, it just sneered at me and slid away. Occasionally, something bubbled to the surface, popped and vanished again but mostly I had nothing.

  The chair creaked as Dr Stone leaned forward. I heard the rustle of his clothing. He smelled of soap.

  ‘Matthew is safe. He’s with Professor Rapson and Miss Lingoss.’

  I slurred, ‘Jolly good,’ and wondered if someone would tell me what was going on. It was too much effort to ask for myself.

  ‘Max, do you remember anything? Anything at all?’

  ‘Stamford Bridge,’ I said slowly. ‘Harald Hardrada’s seven feet of earth.’

  Three birds with one stone.

  They looked at each other again and then moved away so I couldn’t hear what they were saying. I caught only the words, ‘No point in telling her now. We’ll wait,’ and Peterson nodding agreement.

  And still no Hunter.

  The next day I was better. I still had a head full of cotton wool but at least now I could string two or three coherent thoughts together and hang on to them. Unkind people might say that was an improvement on before.

  Before … what?

  Obviously something had happened … But Matthew was safe. I’d lost count of the number of times they’d told me Matthew was safe. Which was good news. I was really pleased for this Matthew. Whoever he was.

  They brought breakfast. I nibbled on a piece of toast, because either eating something or opening your bowels is the quickest way of escaping from Sick Bay. Although not simultaneously, as I’d once discovered to my cost.

  Peterson turned up again after breakfast. He’d shaved at last but, looking at him now, any peace he’d gained since Helen’s death had been shattered. His eyes were shadowed and heavy.

  We looked at each other for a while.

  I had no idea what was happening. Why was he here? I sought for something to say and enquired why he had gone back to wearing his blues.

  ‘I’ve got the History Department,’ he said quietly, ‘until you’ve recovered.’

  Silence fell. I felt something was required of me, but what?

  He took my hand. ‘You haven’t asked what happened. Why you’re in here.’

  Hadn’t I? What was wrong with me? I tried to think. Nothing came to mind.

  ‘Max, I’m sorry but we felt I was the best one to tell you. They thought it would be easier it if came from me.’

  Easier for whom was a good question.

  Dr Stone interrupted. ‘Max, do you know why you’re in Sick Bay?’

  ‘No, but my head hurts. And my back. And my shoulder.’

  ‘I can give you something for that.’

  Silence fell again

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Why am I here?’

  I thought they’d be pleased I was taking an interest but, again, they just looked at each other.

  In the silence, I became aware of the sounds of heavy machinery outside, and men shouting.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Tim took my other hand. Whatever had happened between us was forgotten. He looked so distressed that I was distressed for him. ‘Max, there’s been an … explosion.’

  My first thought was that Professor Rapson had finally taken out the entire R&D corridor but their faces were … wrong.

  And then, something flickered at the back of my mind. I said, ‘Say that again.’

  ‘There has been an explosion.’

  There it was again. Something. I began to claw my way through lumps of cotton wool that fought me every inch of the way.

  A white flash. Tumbling. Dieter.

  I opened my eyes. ‘Dieter.’

  ‘We’ve discharged him. He’s fine. Just a sprained wrist and some bruising.’


  They both watched me again. I shook my head. ‘No. Sorry. Can’t you just tell me?’

  ‘The thing is, Max, it’s not good news. I think your memory will return quite naturally in a couple of days and then we could take things from there.’

  ‘No. Tell me now.’

  ‘I’m offering you a period of – well, you could say, blissful ignorance, which…’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘All right. Dr Peterson? Would you like to begin?’

  Tim hitched his chair a little closer. ‘Max, think back. You’re in Hawking. You’ve arrived back from Stamford Bridge. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What happens next?’

  I closed my eyes. ‘Dieter comes in. He’s shutting things down. I take my bag out of the locker. It’s heavy. I heave it over my shoulder. Dieter’s finished. He’s asking me how things went. I turn to speak to him.’

  I stopped, confronted by more giant lumps of cotton wool. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘No, that’s very good, Max. Now, you’re in Hawking. What do you see? What can you smell?’

  ‘The Hawking smell. Concrete. Dust. Metal. Hot electrics.’

  ‘Good. What can you hear?’

  ‘People shouting to one another. Echoes in a big space. An electric drill somewhere. The radio’s playing the classics. Abba.’

  And suddenly, without warning, I was there. In Hawking. And I remembered everything.

  It all came crashing back. I remembered that last scene. Those final moments. My people up ahead, heading for the door. Techies dragging the thick black umbilicals across the floor towards Number Five. The big hangar doors slightly open, letting in light and a welcome shaft of rare sunlight. Hawking Hangar during a normal day.

  Just before it was all gone for ever.

  I jumped down off the plinth, dodged Mr Lindstrom’s grinning attempts to trip me with an umbilical, and set off for the far door and Sick Bay. Ahead of me, Bashford and Sykes were just passing through. I remember he held the door open for her. They were arguing about something or other and then, without any sort of warning, every alarm went off. Every light flashed above every plinth. The blue emergency lights strobed overhead. The red alarms over the blast doors came on, hooting and shrieking. With a boom that made the building shudder, the big interlocking blast doors crashed together.