A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's) (2 page)

I did understand. Their job was to annihilate anything that could threaten the timeline. And I was, if not a threat, at the very least, an anomaly. And they knew I was here. They wouldn’t rest until they found me.

He continued. ‘Nations are – induced – to give up time-travel. No one wants it any longer, anyway. By now, they’ve all discovered that time-travel is like holding a snake because, sooner or later, it always twists in your hand and bites you. And they’ve discovered they can’t pillage the past, so there’s all that expenditure and no return on it. And the possible consequences of their actions have been brought home to them in no uncertain terms. Of course, none of them wants to be the first to give it up, but the Time Police broker international agreements and after a lot of pushing and shoving, things settle back down again.

‘As I said, this is all in the future. St Mary’s, who have kept their heads well down during all of this, are allowed to remain in existence, but subject to strict controls. The Time Police move up and down the timeline, monitoring all incarnations of St Mary’s, past, present, and future. All jumps must be approved. We have to submit about a ton of paperwork; risk assessments, perceived benefits, methodology, personnel involved, aims and objectives – the works. We have to get permission for every jump and not much is permitted.’

‘Who gives this permission?’

‘The initial application goes through our employers – Thirsk University. And then Thirsk forwards the application to the Time Police with their recommendations.’

He paused to drink his tea again and I had a bit of a think.

‘So what goes wrong?’

‘From monitoring, it’s only a small step to complete control. Which is what they wanted all along. Complete control over all incarnations of St Mary’s. And largely they’ve succeeded. Can you imagine the power that gives them? A few isolated pockets of independence still exist. Our St Mary’s is one of them.’

‘Is that why they were after us?’

‘No. I think they’ve been alerted to your presence. At best, they’ll want you for questioning. At worst …’

We fell silent, each staring into our empty mug.

‘Come on,’ he said, with decision, pulling me to my feet. ‘It’s getting light. We’ll check through our supplies and then go outside and set up camp.’

We let ourselves out of the pod just as the early morning sunshine swept across the landscape, bringing life and colour back into the world. I stood for a moment, just breathing in the peace. I hadn’t been here for a long time. The last time had been just before Troy. After Troy, my Leon and I weren’t even speaking to each other, let alone indulging in any romantic moments. Everything was as I remembered it and yet I’d never been here before. This was not my world.

A great wave of grief came out of nowhere. Grief for my St Mary’s that I would never see again. For Tim, lying injured and sad. For Kalinda, my friend. For Markham and Guthrie. For the Boss. Even for Mrs Partridge. I remembered the smell of breakfast in the mornings, the clatter of feet on ancient wooden floors, the sound of furious argument – or scholarly debate as they insisted it be called – between Dr Dowson and Professor Rapson. I remembered the click of the Boss’s stick on stone floors. And it was all gone. For ever.

The grief subsided to be replaced by fear. I was alone in a familiar but strange world and now it seemed I was a fugitive as well. I’d jumped into this pod without a second thought and it struck me now (too late) that this might not have been the wisest move.

On the other hand, I’m an historian. I work for St Mary’s. I wouldn’t know a wise move it if it tried to hump my left leg.

Leon interrupted these less than useful thoughts. ‘Shall we sit down?’

He spread a blanket and we leaned against a rock in the sun. Just as I always used to with my Leon.

I closed my eyes and struggled a little.

‘Are you in pain? Does your chest hurt?’

What to say? How to convey the sudden, almost overwhelming feelings of panic, of isolation, of fear?

I kept my eyes closed. He didn’t speak, which I appreciated.

Eventually, I said, ‘Sorry. Just a bit of a moment there. All gone now.’

‘What would you like me to do? Leave you for a moment? Talk about something else? Fetch you another interminable cup of tea?’

I drew a deep breath. ‘Actually, what I want … what I really, really want … is just to sit here for a moment.’

He made a move to get up but I pulled him down again. ‘No, it’s all right. Please stay. Perhaps now … now is the moment to … to …’

He sat again, picked up a stick, and began to draw patterns in the dust as the two most emotionally inarticulate people on the planet circled warily around … feelings.

I said, ‘This must be difficult for you, as well.’

He hesitated. ‘It is, but I think I’m a winner in all this. I’ve not lost anything – I’ve gained. Gained you. But you’ve lost everything and all you’ve gained is me. And I’m not the right me.’

He did understand. I should have more faith.

I smiled. ‘I don’t consider myself a loser at all. And let’s face it, at the moment, neither of us has anything more than each other. And fugitive status, of course.’

‘Yes, that was effortless, wasn’t it? One moment I’m a respectable small-business owner in one of the most sedate market-towns in England, then you turn up and unleash the Forces of Darkness, and now we’re hiding on a small island, five thousand years ago.’

‘With no breakfast,’ I said, highlighting the main issue. ‘I bet you didn’t think to bring my toast with you?’

He sighed. ‘Nothing but complaints.’

‘Would it have killed you to have grabbed a slice on the way out? I bet these Time Police people are scoffing my breakfast even as we speak.’

We sat for a while, as the world got brighter and warmer.

He shifted his position. ‘I was going to ask, but you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. How did you get here?’

‘You mean here, in this world?’

‘Yes. What happened at Agincourt?’

I started slowly. ‘It was my last jump. Tim Peterson and me. I was going to be Deputy Director, you know.’

‘I can only assume that Dr Bairstow had suffered some sort of neural event. Did you manage to get yourself stabbed during the battle? Did you get too close?’

‘Well, of course we got too close. We were right up there with the archers. But no, it happened when we went to check out the baggage train at the rear.’

I closed my eyes and it all sprang to life in front of me.

‘The baggage train was behind the battle. As were the hundreds of French prisoners. We wanted to see if Henry’s order to kill them was justified. And whether if it was carried out at all. Just as we arrived, a bunch of French peasants came out of nowhere. They weren’t fighting in the battle; they’d come to scavenge, rob the dead and wounded, steal the horses – that sort of thing.

‘I know what you’re going to say, but we were actually retreating. We were on our way back to the pod. There was fighting all around us. The bastards were killing the wounded, the priests, and the young boys, everyone they could. One came out of nowhere and nearly took Peterson’s arm off.’

I stopped and swallowed, reliving that moment.

‘He was … so brave. I got him away and tied up the wound. He was conscious, but barely. The pod wasn’t far away but he wasn’t going to make it. I’d lost you. I couldn’t lose him as well.’

I stopped.

‘What did you do?’

‘I pushed him into a hollow, hit him over the head with a rock, buried him under the leaves, and left him.’

‘Good job he was a friend of yours. What do you do to people you don’t like?’

I choked out a laugh.

He rubbed my arm. ‘That’s better. Then what?’

‘I took off. I ran and ran. Through the wet woods. Making as much noise as I could. They followed me. One was ahead of me. I ran slap into him. While I was dealing with him, someone ran me through with a sword. I never knew anything about it.’

I stopped. He was still drawing triangles in the dirt. I took a deep breath and lived it all again. ‘Everything went very quiet and still. I looked up at the black branches and the white sky. Nothing moved.’

I was talking to myself, now.

‘I didn’t feel the need to breathe. Everything had ended. Everything was over. I felt no regret. I’d given Tim a fighting chance. I fell forwards. Onto your carpet. Which I’ve bled all over and probably lost you your cleaning deposit. Sorry about that.’

‘And that’s what happened?’

I nodded. What I’d told him was the truth. Just not all of it. I hadn’t mentioned Mrs Partridge’s part in all this. I mean, what do you say? ‘Oh, I was dying in the 15th century and then the Muse of History plucked me out of my world and dropped me into yours – to fulfil some task she wouldn’t tell me about?’

I don’t know why I was so wary of mentioning Mrs Partridge. It’s not as if her role makes the story any more weird, any less believable, or any more impossible. Nothing could. The whole thing is completely weird, unbelievable, and impossible. On the other hand, I travel through time for a living, so don’t talk to me about weird, unbelievable, or impossible. Really, I suppose, instead of jumping backwards or forwards, I’d just gone – sideways.

Please do not repeat that theory to any reputable physicist. I don’t want to be spat on in the streets.

I left Leon setting up camp and wandered slowly through the trees for a first glimpse of the glittering, turquoise sea, listening to the birds greeting the new day, hearing the distant crash of surf and the sound of the wind sighing in the pine trees. This was always a special moment for me. I sat on a rock and relived some happy memories.

Trees marched down to the shore, their acid-green foliage contrasting sharply with the rust-red soil and rocks. All the colours were sharp and fresh. The sun shone from a cloudless, blue, blue sky. It would be hot later on. Everything was still and peaceful. This had always been a little piece of heaven. Nothing bad ever happened here.

Not that I ever got to enjoy it for long. As usual, I was chief wood-gatherer and water-fetcher. I would have been the designated heavy-load carrier as well, but, fortunately, I had a fatal chest wound to recover from, so I was, to some extent, excused boots. And cooking. Actually, I’m not so much excused cooking as banned from approaching any food preparation area over three continents. Which is not the harsh punishment it might seem.

Leon busied himself lighting the fire, and I set off on the perpetual search for firewood. I’d kicked off my slippers and dressing gown and wandered along familiar paths, feeling the soft carpet of pine needles under my feet, inhaling the scents of pine and sea, and listening to the seabirds crying as they circled the rocky shore. Nothing had changed. Seasons came and went but nothing ever changed here. It would be thousands of years before people arrived on this little island.

There was plenty of wood around and I strolled slowly through the trees, bending painfully to pick up the smaller pieces.

And then, somewhere behind me, a bird called a harsh warning and erupted into the air, wings beating hard as it sought for height.

Instinct cut in. I drew back behind a tree and stood stock-still. Waiting.

I saw the movement several seconds before I realised what I was looking at. And there. And over there as well.

A line of familiar black-clad soldiers was moving slowly uphill. They weren’t charging. There was a deliberation about their movements. They kept in strict formation. They weren’t charging – they were beating. They were making sure nothing could slip past them.

Shit! How could they possibly have found us?

There was no time for finesse. They would see me as soon as I moved. There is no environment in the world in which yellow-and-white PJs can fade quietly into the background.

I dropped the wood, shouted a warning to Leon, and set off, running uphill as best I could, my chest straining with the effort. It was far too soon after my recent death for all this exertion.

Behind me, someone shouted an order. They’d seen me.

I half expected a hail of bullets but it didn’t happen. Maybe they couldn’t get a clear shot at me amongst the trees.

Leon was hurling our stuff back into the pod.

I risked a look back over my shoulder and two of them were pointing the hair-dryer things again.

If they were EMPs then they didn’t need to shoot us. They could just disable the pod and then pick us up at their leisure. It was a small island. We wouldn’t be able to avoid them for long.

I was struggling uphill. My chest hurt. I couldn’t catch my breath. This time yesterday, I’d been dead. What did people expect from me?

I shouted to Leon. ‘Go! Get away!’

He ignored me. He ran towards me, seized an arm, and literally towed me into the pod. As we crashed through the door, he shouted, ‘Computer. Emergency extraction. Now.’

I braced myself because I knew this would hurt.

And it did.

The world went black.

Chapter Two

I lay on my back amid a clutter of stuff and stared up at the ceiling.

Bloody hell, not again.

Emergency extraction is – not surprisingly – for emergencies. When getting out quickly is more important than getting out safely. Because it hurts. You declare an emergency and the pod hurls you away from the current catastrophe at nose-bleeding speed. Shortly followed by bone-breaking impact. Believe it or not, there’s the odd historian who’s never, ever, had to call for emergency extraction. I, on the other hand, am losing count of the number of times it has happened to me. And they never get any easier.

I turned my head. Leon was slowly lifting himself off the floor.

‘Stay where you are, Max.’

As if I had any choice.

‘We need to check whether they’ve followed us again. Just lie still. I’ll get to you in a minute.’

I was glad to see he didn’t let personal concerns affect his priorities. There was no point in him bending anxiously over me as the Time Police crashed through the door.

He heaved himself up and dropped heavily into the seat, flexing his shoulder painfully. There’s no such thing as a painless extraction. I had no difficulty in obeying his instructions to stay put.

‘Well,’ he said, eventually. ‘It’s the 17th century. London, I think, and it’s cold. Actually, it’s very cold.’

Yes, it would be. Britain suffered the Little Ice Age between the 14th and 19th centuries. I groaned to myself. Lacking any return coordinates, the computer had randomly selected a time and place. Its priority was to safeguard pod and crew. Probably in that order. Since fifty per cent of the crew were still in their pyjamas, somewhere a little warmer would have been appreciated.

‘I think,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘we’ve landed on the River Thames. That doesn’t seem right.’

He began scrolling through screens.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I think it is. I think you’ll find the Thames is frozen over. Will it hold our weight?

He was peering at the screen. ‘It seems to be holding everyone’s weight. There’s a small town out there. Booths, tents, stalls, people, bonfires, roasting animals and … I think … yes, a bear. I don’t think one small pod is going to make much difference.’

‘Are you sure? We came down with a bit of a bang.’

‘I know,’ he said, rubbing his elbow, ‘but there are no signs of splintering ice. And we’re camouflaged, so there’s no screaming and no panic. Which is remarkable when you think there’s been an historian on site now for nearly five minutes. Is it possible you’ve lost your touch?’

‘Yes, very funny,’ I said, clambering to my feet. ‘Personally, I always say that any landing you can walk away from has been a good one. Even with a techie driving.’

‘That was your definition of a good landing, was it?’

‘Well, as you say – no external panic and no internal injuries. A huge success by St Mary’s standards.’

I joined him at the screen. ‘Oh, cool. It’s a Frost Fair.’

‘A what?’

‘Don’t you know about the Frost Fairs?’

‘I’m a technician. I have different priorities.’

‘And yet, here’s the historian once again saving the day with vital information the techie needs to know.’

‘In less than two hundred words, if you can possibly manage that.’

‘OK. Listen up. In the old days, the Thames was much shallower and wider than it is today. No embankment. All the debris and rubbish would pile up around the narrow piers on London Bridge and almost bring the river to a standstill. So it would freeze over. The weather was much colder then, too. So cold that birds fell dead from the air. Deer died in the parks. People died in the streets and public subscriptions were taken up to provide the poor with fuel to help them survive. Come on.’

‘You’re not going out there?’

‘I’m not missing this.’

‘Are you insane?’

‘Leon, I must see this. It’s my only chance. I’ll never be able to come back.’

‘If it’s so cold that birds are dropping from the skies, do you really want to be out there in your pyjamas?’

I pulled open locker doors. ‘There must be something.’

Reluctantly, he pulled out a jumble of miscellaneous clothing. I saw sweatshirts, socks, gloves. I knew he’d have something. This was his own personal pod. He’d had it for years. In addition to his own cold and wet-weather gear, there was no way he wouldn’t have accumulated all sorts of useful stuff.

I scrambled into as many garments as I could get on, tucking my jammy bottoms into several pairs of old socks. He picked up a blanket and cut a slit for my head and I wore it Clint Eastwood style over my dressing gown. And yes, he was right, I did look very odd, especially clumping around in his outsized wellies with three pairs of socks, but everyone outside was almost certainly wearing every single item of clothing they possessed, and possibly their bedding as well, so, as I pointed out, I fitted right in.

He said nothing in a very meaningful way.

We stepped outside. He was absolutely right. It was cold.

Bloody hell, it was cold.

Oh God, it was cold.

Only pride stopped me bolting back into the pod. I felt the hairs in my nostrils freeze. He wound a scarf around my head and face.

‘Told you.’

I glared at him over the scarf.

He smiled. ‘You have snow in your eyelashes.’

Before I could work out what to say to that, he said, ‘Breathe through the scarf and don’t cough, whatever you do, because you’ll never stop.’

I could feel the chill striking up through the rubber soles and three pairs of socks. My feet instantly turned into blocks of ice. There was little wind, but the cold passed effortlessly through my layers of clothing and froze the marrow in my bones. My heart went out to the poor, huddled together in their draughty hovels. Some without a proper roof and some probably without proper walls, either. Trying to stay warm. Trying to stay alive.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Keep moving or go back inside.’

We turned back to familiarise ourselves with the pod’s location because, sometimes, it’s quite tricky finding something you can’t see. We were next to a red–and-white striped booth and opposite a grubby white canvas awning with looped-up sides, underneath which quantities of ale were being distributed.

There was plenty of dirty snow on the ice to give us a good grip, so we were able to stride out quite briskly. He pulled my arm through his.

‘All right?’

I nodded so he wouldn’t hear my teeth chattering.

I judged it to be late afternoon. The sun was already setting. Faint stars appeared above us. The odd snowflake drifted down. More people were appearing on the ice, calling to one another and laughing.

They say, ‘If life gives you lemons, make lemonade.’ For Londoners, if life gives you a frozen Thames and bitter temperatures then hold a Frost Fair and make some money. They were turning a fight for survival into an entertainment opportunity.

Smoke from thousands of chimneys streamed horizontally in the cold air and choked the city. The last streaks of colour left the sky. I felt even colder, if possible.

However, this was Restoration London in 1683 and it was impossible not to be excited. This was England under that Merry Monarch, Charles Stuart.

Hardly had the less-than-jolly Olly Cromwell died, than the English heaved a huge sigh of relief, resolved never to do that again, and restored the monarchy in the person of that astute party-animal, Charles II. Charles was famous for his mistresses, spaniels, the Great Plague, the Dutch War, the Great Fire of London (when he fought the fire alongside his fellow Londoners), the Royal Society, and at least fourteen illegitimate children. He packed a lot into his twenty-five year reign.

England threw aside the social and religious restrictions of Cromwell’s Commonwealth rule, drew a deep breath – and partied. Necklines and morals plummeted. Skirts, on the other hand, were raised on every conceivable occasion. The country erupted in an outpouring of promiscuity and riotous behaviour. The religiously rigorous departed for America in disgust.

The normal procedure on any assignment should be for us to note our surroundings and check for possible hazards. That’s always good fun on a battlefield. Then study the people, behaviour, and clothing and finally, record and document whatever’s happening at the time.

In these conditions, however, there wasn’t much chance of any of that. Everything was covered in snow. Huge long icicles hung from booths and nearby buildings as temperatures rose slightly during the day and then dropped again at night. Vertical surfaces glittered under a coating of ice. Everyone was swathed in great bundles of clothing so there was no chance of observing the fashions of the time. Well, we’d just have to do the best we could.

‘Look,’ said Leon, pointing. People had tied animal bones to their feet and were propelling themselves with sticks and poles. There was a lot of shouting and laughing. And falling over.

Despite the cold and the anxiety, I felt my heart lift. I’m an historian. This was what I was born to do. I couldn’t help a little skip of excitement.

Here and there, animals were being roasted on spits. Scruffy dogs and even scruffier children hung around, hoping for scraps. I didn’t blame them. The smell was tempting. Again, I regretted my missed toast.

Pie men wandered around with trays around their necks, bawling their wares on the ice. Better than the other way around, I supposed.

All around us, I could see stilt-walkers and jugglers. Apprentices played football with enthusiasm and little skill. Giggling ladies with powdered hair and muffled in furs played very well-mannered skittles. Musicians marched up and down the ice, red-cheeked with cold. No one could afford to stand still for very long. Not in these temperatures.

Bloody hell, it was cold. I could feel ice forming on my eyelashes.

We should keep moving. Apart from small, warm pockets around individual braziers, the air was freezing. A few more snowflakes drifted down, mingling with the ash from the fires. Taking gentle, shallow breaths through my scarf seemed the best way to avoid coughing up a lung or two. I had long since ceased to feel my feet. I remembered that, in the past, the temperature of my feet and the interesting places I found to keep them warm had formed the basis of many a vigorous discussion.

However, everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. Crowds congregated around roasting animals and pie stalls. Those purveying strong drinks were doing a roaring trade. People called to each other, greeting friends, drawing attention to some strange sight or other. Loud music was everywhere. It was all a bit like Glastonbury with ice and snow instead of mud. And even fewer toilets.

Now that dusk had set in, stallholders were lighting their lanterns around the ice and bonfires blazed higher against the stars. An air of excitement was abroad. People were obviously determined to enjoy themselves. In these temperatures, this time tomorrow, they could well be dead.

As could we.

I pushed that thought aside. While it was just vaguely possible the Time Police somehow knew of the existence of Skaxos and had followed us there, we had been able to leave them behind. With all of History out there, there was no way they’d ever be able to find us here.

I was happily watching two enterprising young men attempt to impress a group of girls with their skating prowess when we heard a commotion coming from what would have been downriver had we not been standing on solid ice.

People were shouting – and not in a good way. Dogs barked. Around us, people craned their necks, trying to see what was happening. Had someone fallen through the ice? I stood on tiptoe, trying to peer through the crowds. Maybe someone had caught a pickpocket.

Leon took my arm and saying quietly, ‘This way,’ drew me away from the excitement.

‘What’s happening?’

‘They’re here.’

‘What? How? How could they have found us?’

‘We’ll work that out later. Don’t hurry. Don’t look behind you. Just walk slowly back towards the pod.’

We were a hundred yards away from the pod and the commotion behind was drawing ever closer.

‘Don’t look back,’ he said again. ‘This is a common technique. They start a disturbance behind us and as we run away, the majority of them are ahead of us, waiting for us to run blindly into their arms.’

‘Any helpful thoughts?’

‘Let’s get off the river. Too exposed. We’ll lose ourselves in the streets and find our way back later.’

‘Suppose they find the pod?’

He stopped.

‘Good thought.’

It was. I do have them occasionally. If they found the pod and disabled it, we would be helpless. In fact, that was all they would have to do. In these temperatures, unable to gain access, we could be dead in hours. Maybe not even that long. Once again, I felt a little tickle of fear. I’ve said this before. It’s not easy living out of your own time. Everyone has a place in society and without the backing of family, friends, a guild, a tribe, a village, we were officially non-persons. Scratching a living by stealing is no fun. And, it seemed, wherever we went, these people were only a few hours behind us. We could be in big trouble.

He looked down at me. ‘Can you run?’

I opened my mouth to say yes, but it came out as no. Sometimes prudence overcomes stupidity. Even for me.

We turned casually aside off the river, crunched over the snow, climbed a few icy steps, and scrambled over a low wall.

‘Don’t look back and don’t run. Steady, now.’

Walking slowly, we entered a warren of small lanes, fronted by narrow wooden houses leaning unsteadily over the street. Nearly twenty years after the Great Fire, the streets of London were still cramped and noisome. I knew there had been ambitious plans for a modern city with boulevards and avenues, but the common people, afraid of having their tiny plots of land absorbed into these new schemes, had started to rebuild even before the ashes cooled. The result was that, in parts, the new London wasn’t that much different from the old one.

Away from the lights and fires of the fair, everything seemed dark and shadowed. And much, much colder. What snow remained was black and filthy. The few people on the streets were staggering home, clutching as much wood as they had been able to find. Tiny windows were heavily shuttered against the cold and any gaps stuffed with frozen rags. Few lights showed. The air was heavy with smoke and caught at my throat. I tried not to cough.