by Jodi Taylor
I became aware of people looking at me and realised I might have said some of that out loud.
Peterson stared at me for a moment before saying, ‘Of course. I hadn’t realised … I’ll certainly have a word with Mrs Enderby.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, inclining my head in a manner nicely calculated to combine gratitude with dignity. As befitted my newly acquired status.
‘Not a problem. Any questions anyone?’
They shook their heads.
‘Right, report to Hawking at 09:00 Wednesday next. A copy of these notes to Max, please, Miss Lee. Thank you, everyone.’
My big mistake, of course, was to trust Peterson. If I had a concern it was that he would forget, but he didn’t. I presented myself to Mrs Enderby who immediately said oh yes, Dr Peterson had had a word and they’d got something fixed up for me.
‘A male costume,’ I said, suddenly worried. It would be just like the History Department to have me tarted up like a pantomime dame.
‘Of course,’ she said, slightly startled. ‘As you know, clothes were quite gorgeous in the 17th century, especially for the men, so we were rather able to go to town on you.’
I stopped. ‘I won’t have to wear a wig, will I?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. Your hair is fine.’
No one at St Mary’s has what could be called a military haircut. Everyone here has a lot of hair. Except for Dr Bairstow, of course. Nature’s way of compensating, I suppose. We men have a kind of multi-purpose shag – which is not anything like as exciting as it sounds – that covers any number of centuries and female historians have hair half way down their backs. It looks good, but the downside is that we shed. There’s more shedding at St Mary’s than on a municipal allotment. We’re always clogging up the drains. Mr Strong goes mad and rumour has it that Bashford occasionally goes so far as to cough up the odd hairball.
Our beards though were a different matter. The three of us, Peterson, Evans and me had had a bit of a competition to see who could grow the best Van Dyck. Evans had had his usual problem – for some reason his facial hair grows at different rates on each side of his face so he was going for the lopsided look. Being fair, Peterson’s was too light to be very noticeable. Mine was – I need hardly say – magnificent. I’d caught Hunter admiring it several times. At least that was what she said she was doing. Well-shaped and neatly trimmed, combining manliness and impeccable grooming, I was the epitome of overwhelming masculinity. As I’d informed Peterson on several occasions.
My costume was pink.
That bastard Peterson was so dead.
‘It’s pink,’ I said, deepening my voice several octaves in case anyone had got the wrong idea.
‘It’s rose,’ she said soothingly. ‘A very fashionable colour.’
‘But pink is for girls.’
‘Not in the 17th century. Pink wasn’t associated with girls until around World War One. No one will think it’s at all unusual. In fact, the colour really suits you.’
I stared at her suspiciously. Stitched up, if you’ll excuse the expression, by Mrs Enderby. She stared guilelessly back again. Yes, she always looks very sweet, but you have to remember Wardrobe is part of the History Department, so I have some doubts.
Usually it’s women’s fashions that are preposterous and it’s always funny to watch Max struggle with a corset or a bustle, but this time we men were suffering too. I’ve never seen so much lace. I had a huge lace collar which made me look like little Lord Fauntleroy and lace ruffles on my sleeves which fell over my hands. Still, they would give me something to blow my nose on. I had a short jacket which fell to a point and fastened with little girlie ribbons, if you can believe that. And don’t even get me started on the breeches which were baggy and tied at the knee with yet more ribbons. Over all that I had a short cloak which I could see was really going to get in my way and the whole ridiculous outfit was topped off with a wide-brimmed hat sporting an enormous pink feather.
I emerged from Wardrobe and the silence from everyone was more eloquent than if they’d fallen on the floor laughing.
‘It’s rose,’ I said.
No one said a word.
Evans – of course – was cool and comfortable in a simple linen shirt, a sleeveless leather doublet, normal breeches, stockings and stout shoes. All in a rather nice shade of manly brown. We looked at each other.
‘One of us looks like 17th-century Barbie,’ he said. ‘And it’s not me.’
‘It’s rose.’ Why was everyone having so much difficulty with that?
I told him to pick up the basket containing our lunch. I was pleased to see him stagger slightly. Mrs Mack obviously hadn’t stinted on provisions.
I cast Mrs Enderby one long, last, reproachful look – which she didn’t appear to notice at all – and followed everyone down the long corridor to Hawking. The leather boots had those stupid turn-down tops and walking wasn’t easy.
We gathered outside Number Six and Evans and I took the opportunity to give them all one last security check for watches or whatever. I can only think they’d had some sort of collective neural event in Wardrobe. Normally we go for the middle of the road ‘not rich enough to rob but too prosperous to kick’ image. Not today. Today, we were doing colour. Big time.
Most prominent was Lingoss in pale orange.
‘Apricot,’ muttered Evans.
‘What?’
‘Apricot. It’s apricot, not orange.’
‘Who set you up as fashion expert?’ I demanded, because the pink still rankled.
‘No one. It’s in Wardrobe’s briefing notes. Good job she ditched the blue hair. Would have looked awful. Blue and orange. Opposite sides of the colour spectrum and …’
‘Will you piss off?’
He grinned and moved away and I decided it was time to make winding up senior officers a capital offence. Starting with him. And I’d backdate it. But he was right. I don’t know whether it was her natural colour or just something she’d grabbed out of a bottle last night, but Lingoss’s chestnut hair was dressed in soft curls that framed her face and looked … normal. Well, as normal as any woman can look when decked out in twenty yards of orange … sorry, apricot … fabric.
Standing next to her, Sykes was in pale blue, with a short, elaborately embroidered jacket very similar to mine, tied with ribbons down the front and a huge, wide skirt. A little distance away, as usual, North was regal in gold. She looked the most at ease, as well. The rest of us resembled children dressing up in adult’s clothing, but she comes from a long line of aristocrats who actually wore this sort of clothing as they presided over hunting peasants for sport or using criminals as firewood. They all had corkscrew curls, the fashionable narrow back, the high waist, puffed sleeves tied above and below the elbow, and huge wide skirts.
‘Don’t know how we’re going to get them all in,’ muttered Evans, back alongside me. ‘The pod’s not that big.’
Peterson joined us, looking noble and serious in dark blue. Less collar, fewer ruffles, smaller feather and no pink. I glowered suspiciously.
‘Nice,’ he said, looking me up and down. ‘Suits you, sir.’
Leon emerged from the pod. ‘All set,’ he said. ‘Ready whenever you are. Good heavens!’
‘It’s rose,’ I said, before he could say any more.
‘You look like Puss in Boots.’
I put my hand on an imaginary sword. ‘My name is Inigo Montoya. Prepare to die.’
‘Straighten your hat, Mr Montoya.’
I grinned at him. ‘Not enough ears. I can’t keep it on straight.’
I’d once lost a bit of one ear in an unfortunate William Tell-related trauma. I didn’t miss it and it certainly doesn’t cause me any problems, but hats are sometimes a bit of a bugger.
He sighed and then we both watched Peterson trying to prise three very wide female historians through a narrow doorway. Like so much colourful toothpaste.
I noticed Peterson kept looking up at the gantry as if expecting
someone. I looked up as well, half expecting to see her hanging over the rail or sitting in her wheelchair making rude gestures, but she wasn’t there.
‘Good luck,’ said Leon, as I followed them in.
I shook my head. Sykes, North, Lingoss and a steam-engine. As Max had said – what could possibly go wrong?
It was a good job there weren’t that many people on this assignment, but even so, Evans and I had to flatten ourselves against the locker doors in case we were smothered in silk.
‘Right,’ said Peterson. ‘We all know why we’re here.’
We nodded because we did, but it occurs to me that you don’t, so, rather late in the day, I’d better explain.
We’re St Mary’s. By which I mean we work for the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory. I always say we’re just outside Rushford if anyone ever wants to pop in, but no one ever does. The purpose of St Mary’s is to investigate major historical events in contemporary time. The purpose of the History Department is to enmire themselves in the deepest trouble at the earliest opportunity and the purpose of the Security Section is to unenmire them with speed, style and, if possible, success.
Using pods – carefully designed to resemble stone-built shacks which would be anonymous in any time period – we gallivant up and down the timeline, a comet tail of disaster and catastrophe trailing in our wake. Or investigating major historical events in contemporary time if you want the official definition.
The world might have gone white. I don’t know. Peterson was the designated driver so I had my eyes shut. Our landing wasn’t the softest. Fortunately, we were all old hands and everyone was well braced.
‘Bloody hell,’ I said, straightening my stupid hat. ‘When are you ever going to get the hang of driving these things?’
‘I don’t understand it,’ he said, staring at the read outs. ‘It must be the Technical Section. I’m sure they’ve done something to the pods.’
In the interests of inter-departmental harmony, we all agreed that yes, the Technical Section had probably done something to the pods. I recommended he take it up with Leon on our return.
‘Well,’ he said, picking up his hat off the floor. ‘Astonishingly, we seem to be in the right place at the right time. OK people, let’s get cracking.’
We appeared to be on the outskirts of a small copse to the south-east of the Monmouth road. We could see Raglan church tower through the trees so we knew we weren’t far away. We gathered our gear together, decontaminated and exited the pod to a hot, dusty, summer’s day. Evans and I stood back and let them work through the traditional historian cries of wonder and enthusiasm. There was a lot of excited historian chatter about the church, the market cross with its enormous base, the people, the inn and so on. We’d discovered long ago that you just have to let them get it out of their systems.
Raglan village was tiny but bustling. Small wooden houses clustered around the market cross. Their beams were crooked with age and entire ecosystems were growing in the thatch. Picturesque to look at and hell to live in.
It was market day. Well, they were having a market anyway. I suspected the locals were taking advantage of events up at the castle. The open area was bordered by the church on one side, an inn on the other, and packed with makeshift tables. There were bolts of cloth carefully displayed. Metal and leather workers had laid out their goods. Behind a stall, a man in a thick leather apron was mending something I couldn’t see. The smell of glue made my feather wilt. No wonder he looked so cheerful. A well-dressed merchant stood guard over his spice table. No one touched anything without his permission. Alongside that stall, a young boy was throwing cold water over a tray of fish, trying to keep it cool in this hot weather. Not very successfully, by the smell of it.
A lot of stuff was laid out on the ground, including food – wilting greens, eggs and some very small green apples. A thin coating of dust was settling over everything – like grubby icing sugar.
The market place was packed with every sort of person from beggars to landed gentry. A crowd of giggling young women surrounded a pedlar with a tray full of colourful ribbons. Most were dressed in a much more restrained style than us. There were a lot fewer lace ruffles and feathers for a start. And definitely less pink. Darker colours prevailed among the poorer folk – as they often do because they don’t show so much dirt. We did get a few looks as we strolled through the market, attracting not a little attention. I swear someone tittered.
‘Tell them its rose,’ said Evans from behind me, but I ignored him.
There were animals in pens all around. I could hear clucking and mooing and baaing and snorting and that was just my colleagues. Indignant hens fluttered in small wooden cages. The gutters ran with the product of agitated livestock, which on a hot day like this was quite pungent. People shouted over the din – to each other, to their animals and possibly even to themselves.
Across the road from the church, quite a large inn was doing a roaring trade. Men stood around outside, doing business, drinking or just sitting at rough wooden tables enjoying the sun. There were a lot of women about, moving around the market, either buying or selling, or, as Sykes pointed out, doing most of the work while the men stood idly by. Evans and I nodded. What else were women for?
In the distance, with its towers showing behind a slight rise, stood the castle itself, with colourful flags and pennants flying from every turret. Big and imposing, it dominated the landscape around it. And it was home to the country’s first steam-engine. Speaking of which …
‘We need to chivvy them on,’ said Lingoss to me, hopping from foot to foot. ‘Otherwise we might miss the demonstration.’
She was worrying unnecessarily. There was no chance of missing anything. We weren’t the only people heading towards the castle. A trail of horses, sedan chairs, litters, coaches and chattering pedestrians were showing us the way up the hill and towards the gatehouse.
I organised us into two respectable parties, nudging Evans towards North and Sykes. He was still reluctant and I actually had to nudge him quite hard, but with Max’s death threats still ringing in my ears, I wanted Lingoss and Peterson for myself. Besides, I wasn’t sure Evans had sufficient sensitivity and refinement for such an important part of the assignment. Well, no, actually, I’d once spent a very long six hours as the back end of a pantomime reindeer with an egg-sandwich scoffing Evans at the front, and I knew he hadn’t sufficient sensitivity and refinement for such an important assignment. Although he does have an enormous arse.
Looking back, I think I might have been a little high-handed in my efforts to ensure everyone was correctly partnered. Evans scowled horribly and made a big business of shouldering his heavy pack, which I ignored, but typically, while I was busy on his behalf, Peterson had offered his arm to Lingoss, and the next thing the two of them were half way up the hill, hastily followed by me, looking the dog’s bollocks in rose. North and Sykes followed on behind and a smirking Evans brought up the rear.
We fell in behind a smart-looking sedan. The slope up to the castle wasn’t that steep, but I wouldn’t have cared to lug a chair up there in this heat. The two bearers were red-faced and streaming with sweat. Hell of a way to earn a living.
Interesting factette for anyone interested. If you’ve ever wondered why we Brits say, ‘Cheerio,’ it’s because of sedan chairs. Back in days of yore, if you wanted to hire a chair you stood at the side of the road, arm in the air and calling thusly, ‘Chair ho! Chair ho!’ until one turned up and you piled in and were carted off to your destination. Obviously, over time, ‘Chair ho!’ was corrupted to ‘Cheerio.’ Which we still say today. Factette finished.
There were any number of chairs around but every single one of them was taken so we had no choice but to walk. Still, as Lingoss said, we were young and fit and it wasn’t far. I think nearly everyone would have taken issue with that statement, had we had the breath.
The approach to the castle was impressive. As it was designed to be.
‘Lovel
y day.’ Peterson sniffed the air appreciatively. ‘I’ve said it before – you can’t beat the sweet smell of History in the morning.’
I was looking around. That’s the difference between us and historians. They’re standing around inhaling history and we’re making sure the natives aren’t attacking and no one’s being eaten by a sheep.
I have to say – as castles go, this one was pretty cool. And big. Very, very big. ‘I’m the biggest and most important thing for miles around,’ it was saying. ‘And don’t you forget it.’
There was no air pollution to discolour the stone and the whole place glowed in the bright sunshine. The sky above was a fresh, clean blue, the grass glowed green. I squinted up at the towers, trying to make out the colours on the flags and banners, but the sun was so bright they were just dark against the sky. Everything was sunny and peaceful.
‘This is going to be easy,’ muttered Evans. ‘We’re really going to have to work hard to screw this one up, boss.’
I quelled him with a stern look. Or as stern a look as one can manage when clothed from head to toe in pink.
We stood before the outer gatehouse. The gates were open, the portcullises were up and people were flooding in. I’m not sure how formidable it was supposed to be – take it from me, some of the gun loops were in some very odd positions, but today it was the very epitome of welcoming hospitality. Some sort of high-ranking servant greeted everyone as they entered. Once through the outer gatehouse, however, a selection process kicked in. Stewards ushered people according to their rank. Top people – which we were not – were taken through the Pitched Court, into the Fountain Court, and from there across the bridge and into the great tower – the hexagonal Yellow Tower of Gwent – there to listen to music, partake of refreshments and watch events from the private apartments overlooking the moat.