A Catalogue of Catastrophe, page 24
part #13 of Chronicles of St. Mary's Series
Oh, for God’s sake. The silly sod had fallen straight through the smoke hole.
As I saw it, he fell through the smoke hole because he wasn’t looking where he was going. He maintains he was turning in his usual stellar performance when the roof collapsed underneath him. Which – since he has the body mass of a moth – trust me, is unlikely.
He was making a hell of a racket. Crashing and banging and cursing. And an odd sort of metallic bonging noise. I suspect the only reason no one came to investigate was that no one could hear him over the celebrations taking place in the streets around us.
The city was being sacked. That’s what happens when you’re on the losing team. You’re fair game. This was their punishment for supporting the rebels. I could hear the crash of doors being kicked in as soldiers swarmed into the houses looking for anything valuable. No one and nothing was spared. That’s why it’s always referred to as the Lincoln Fair – because of the amount of plunder seized and the good time had by the winning team.
Most of the townspeople had long since fled and as far as I could see all these houses were standing empty. But probably not for long.
I hitched up my skirt and crawled carefully across the roof on all fours because it was quicker and easier – although a lot less dignified. I tried to ease my way around the saggy bits – very unsuccessfully as it turned out, because without even the courtesy of a warning groan, the whole roof sagged beneath me and then collapsed in a shower of rotten timbers and straw.
I grabbed at something – don’t ask me what – and for a second I hung, swaying to and fro like a pendulum in a high wind. I tried to struggle for a better grip and that only made things worse. The timber slid through my hands leaving splinters and pain in its wake. I couldn’t hold on any longer. I shut my eyes – because that always helps – and landed with a crash on something soft.
I think we can all guess who.
The language was horrendous.
I scrambled to my feet, adjusted my clothing, peered through the gloom and said cautiously, ‘Is that you?’
There was a lot more bad language along the lines of who did I think it would bloody well be?
‘What’s that noise?’
There were more hollow metallic noises. And more bad language. ‘Now look what’s happened.’
‘How can I? I can’t see a bloody thing. Come outside.’
I groped my way to the door, pulled it open, and staggered out into the now setting sunlight.
He followed me out.
I collapsed in helpless laughter.
He had a metal pot stuck on his foot and he wasn’t happy. ‘Stop messing about and do something useful, will you?’
I opened my mouth to make a really clever remark about a mess of pottage but thought better of it.
‘I put my swiving foot in it in the dark and now I can’t swiving get it out.’
‘Course you can. If it went in, it’ll come out. Sit down.’
He sat down on the step and lifted his leg. I tugged. Nope – it wasn’t coming off.
‘Well,’ I said heartlessly. ‘You’ve really put your foot in it, haven’t you?’
Which gives you a pretty fair indication of the standards of humour prevailing both in and out of St Mary’s. ‘Good job you didn’t get it stuck on your head because then you’d be a pothead.’
I nearly had to sit down over that one. Lovers of sophisticated humour and witty repartee should move on to the next chapter now because it’s not going to get any better.
‘I can’t walk around like this. Give it another go.’
I did. Because actually, the situation was more serious than I was letting on. If I couldn’t get it off him then there was a very good chance the pod wouldn’t jump. A medieval cauldron was just the sort of thing the onboard sensors would pick up. Markham actually wearing the thing wouldn’t make it any more acceptable.
I broke it to him gently. ‘I’ll have to leave you behind to die alone.’
‘I’m not staying here.’
‘Or chop your foot off.’
‘Not an option.’
‘David Sands manages.’
‘Could you be more constructive?’
I thought hard. ‘No.’
‘This is your fault.’
‘How? How can you being stupid enough to put your foot in a pot be my fault? You’re the idiot here. In fact, you’re a tosspot.’
And off I went again.
A group of three or four men turned into the alley, paused in a manner I didn’t much care for, and then headed towards us.
‘Shit,’ said Markham, attempting to get to his feet.
‘Stay there,’ I said. ‘Leave this to me.’
I put my hands on my hips and stood squarely in their path.
‘Thank heavens,’ I said, raising my hands skywards. And, incidentally, checking my stun gun was still up my sleeve. And yes, I was speaking in English but spouse-slagging-off is common to all languages. They stared at me, not understanding a word, but, I hoped, definitely getting the gist. Time to make them grateful they weren’t married to me.
I gestured at Markham. ‘Look at what this clodhopping fopdoodle has done. I take my eye off him for one moment and see what happens. Did you ever, in all your born days, meet such a sottish, quisby cumberworld?’
‘Steady on,’ said Markham, shocked. I ignored him.
‘I swear he’s nought but a harecop. A raggabrash. A scobberlotcher from the day I married him. Shame it’s not on his head. Do any of you have an axe?’
They were laughing at us both. We might get away with this.
‘Loiter-sack,’ shouted Markham, who has a head start on the world when it comes to insults in any century.
‘What?’ I screamed. ‘Wandought.’
‘Fustylugs. Driggle-draggle,’ he roared, getting into his stride.
‘Bollock-brained moron,’ I yelled, reverting to modern times.
By this point I rather hoped the men would have gone away in search of more beer and younger women. I should be so lucky. Two of them seized Markham and hauled him to his feet.
‘I’ve got my stun gun,’ I said. ‘You kick them with your pot.’
Laughing and shouting jokes I fortunately didn’t understand, they hauled Markham away down the alley, leaving me alone.
‘Seriously,’ I shouted after them. ‘What about me?’
Oh, the shame of it. If we ever got out of this, I was going to have to kill Markham to stop him spreading the story. On the other hand, he had a cauldron on his foot, so it wasn’t really a shining hour for either of us.
If they were taking us away to be killed, then it was a bloody long way to go. We staggered up and down a couple of alleyways – twice in some cases. They were very drunk.
‘Just go with it, Max,’ sang Markham under the guise of a drinking song. ‘Let’s see where they take us.’
Believe it or not – they took us to a smith.
His smithy was a square space where three buildings met. The floor was of stone, supporting his anvil. Horseshoes and odd bits of metal hung from hooks and were piled against the walls. A giant pile of firewood stood ready for use. A sturdy roof on four thick posts covered everything. That was about all I had time to take in.
The smith wasn’t a big man – not much taller than me – but his shoulders and arms were massive. He was bare-chested but wore a scorched and stained leather apron. He was sitting with three or four friends around a dying fire. A small boy sat nearby. The bellows boy, I guessed.
A peaceful scene. Whatever was going on elsewhere was nothing to do with them. A good smith is a valuable member of society. I wondered if he’d worked for both sides.
Markham was presented with much hilarity. No one even looked at me, so for once in my life I thought I’d shut up and let the men sort it out.
On the other hand, the smith was pissed as a newt. Two newts, actually. As he lurched to his feet, he managed to kick an empty flagon across the floor. One of many.
‘Um . . .’ said Markham.
I stood just outside, because smithies were the domain of men, and pushed up my sleeve so I could get to my stun gun if I needed to. Although there were five – no, six – of them, and I’m not bloody Wonder Woman. I decided if everything kicked off, I’d take out the small boy.
Another flagon was found and everyone had a go at that one – even Markham. I didn’t blame him. Having guzzled some evil rotgut, they hoisted him up, still enpotted, in their arms. Someone laid his foot on the anvil.
‘No,’ he wailed. As did I. I couldn’t see this ending at all well.
The smith picked up a hammer the size of Mjölnir, examined it closely and then discarded it in favour of something that looked as if it could fell a large elephant.
‘No,’ I said, starting forwards, because this wasn’t funny any longer.
One of the men caught my arm and pulled me back, shaking his head.
‘But . . .’ I said.
The smith swung. The anvil rang. Markham yelled. I screamed. The men cheered the mighty blow. The pot fell to the floor in two pieces. The flagon went round again. I had a swig this time because enamel on your teeth isn’t anything like as important as dentists would have you believe.
Gently, they set Markham on his feet. ‘I don’t feel very well,’ he said feebly.
‘I don’t blame you,’ I said, clinging to him for support.
‘Is my foot still attached?’
‘It is. Did it hurt very much?’
‘Not at all. I didn’t feel a thing. Are you sure it’s still there? Perhaps that’s why I’m not feeling any pain.’
‘Either that or the stuff you were drinking,’ I said. ‘Would you like me to take you home now?’
He turned pitiful eyes on me. ‘Yes, please.’
Turning to the smith, he bowed low. As did I. That had been some blow.
I drew his arm firmly through mine. ‘Time to go.’
We backed out of the smithy and turned in the direction of the castle.
As we left, their laughter echoed off the walls.
‘Another century we can never go back to,’ said Markham, gloomily.
Just a quick footnote to that rather shameful episode – we were both nearly run over by William Marshal as he made his triumphant entry into the castle. You have to ask yourself – where’s the gratitude? And – silly old fool – he hadn’t learned anything from the day because he’d taken his helmet off again. To reassure his followers, perhaps, although I suspected just seventy-year-old bravado. He was a game old boy. And he wasn’t finished yet. He had a few years still to go.
His long hair was yellowy white and he had a surprising amount of it, given his age. More than John, anyway. His beard was also full and long. He rode through the streets with his clenched fist raised, acknowledging the nearly hysterical cheers.
Lady Nicola stood at the now wide-open East Gate, her veil blowing gently around her. He dismounted and strode to meet her. It was rather sweet, actually. He bowed his head and kissed her hand. She touched his cheek. And then he straightened up, took her arm and the two of them walked in triumph through the gate. I could hear cheering ringing around the bailey.
We followed them in. Well, we joined the crowd who followed them in, but I did feel a little of the reflected glory was ours.
The pod was exactly where we’d left it. No giant boulder had landed on it, which was a relief.
I hadn’t realised it was so late. The day seemed to have flown by and now long shadows were stretching across the bailey. All the gates were open. There was a constant stream of people in and out of the castle grounds.
It was only as we approached the pod that I realised I’d lost my basket. I genuinely had no idea where I could possibly have left it. Pennyroyal takes a very dim view of lost equipment so I made a spirited attempt to blame Markham, claiming he had it last. He responded in kind and I’d like to think it was our very public argument that got us across the bailey with no trouble at all. No one even looked at us. The rebels had mostly been rounded up and were awaiting the king’s justice. I wasn’t sure what would happen to them. Most had surrendered. If William Marshal was clever, he wouldn’t begin the new king’s reign with mass beheadings and hangings.
When I was at St Mary’s, we normally finished every assignment with a quick cup of tea – unless we’d been running for our lives, obviously – during which I’d carry out the headcount and wound inspection. There would be tall stories, exaggeration and mockery.
There was none of that today. I think both of us were fairly shattered. We’d both fallen through a roof. Markham had invented a new kind of footwear. I’d been set on fire and had to climb nearly every set of steps in the castle. Time to go home, as I think everyone will agree.
I was conscious of a certain amount of apprehension over the return trip and noticed Markham unobtrusively easing himself out of vomiting range. I checked over the coordinates one last time, crossed my fingers, and the world went white.
Finally, we were back at Home Farm.
I leaned over the console, pretending to shut things down while I waited for the world to stop spinning. Various read-outs blurred and faded. If Markham asked me to report, I wouldn’t have a bloody clue.
His silence spoke volumes.
‘It’s nothing,’ I said, eventually. ‘I haven’t eaten all day and I had a couple of mouthfuls of that rotgut stuff. Still – that’s soon remedied. Come on, let’s go and find our employers.’
We left the pod and Markham hit the keypad to get us access to the house. I followed him into the hall.
Home Farm greeted us with total silence. The sort of silence that says there’s no one home.
Markham stood still.
‘There’s something wrong,’ he said.
‘No,’ I said, a few minutes behind the world as usual. ‘It’s just a slight dizzy spell.’
‘They’re not here. They should be back by now.’
I blinked and looked around. ‘Not necessarily. And they could be back at any moment. Have they left a message?’
‘Not that I can see.’
Smallhope, Pennyroyal, Markham and I had ways of communicating with each other which I can’t mention here, and none of them had been utilised. On the other hand, nothing was out of place. There were no signs of anything untoward having happened. Certainly no return visit from Insight.
I looked around. ‘Is it possible they’ve been offered a better-paying job and abandoned us?’
‘No,’ Markham said. ‘They wouldn’t do that,’ and he sounded so confident I knew he was worried. ‘1848 is probably taking longer than they thought and they’re not back yet.’
That might well be the case. Pennyroyal and Smallhope certainly had the more complicated assignment. The revolutions of 1848 were sometimes known as the Springtime of Nations. Everyone was at it. Over fifty countries were affected in one way or another. In France, the monarchy was overthrown. Again. I really don’t know why they bothered to unpack. Germany and Italy were each moving towards becoming unified countries at last. After a series of uprisings, Austria had to introduce a more liberal constitution and grant Hungary and Czechoslovakia more autonomy. It was a year of massive change for everyone and I was certain that Insight would be in there somewhere, seeking to tweak History to their advantage.
But I had every confidence in Smallhope and Pennyroyal. Between them, they had the entire social spectrum covered. I suspected they had talents, abilities and resources we didn’t know anything about. And besides, however long it took them shouldn’t make a difference. The return coordinates had been agreed. Even if they’d been in 1848 for ten years they should still be here. Unless they were dead. That really wasn’t something I wanted to contemplate.
‘In that case,’ I said, ‘and lacking instructions to the contrary – shower, shit, shave and straight back out again. We’ll meet them in 1605 instead.’
‘Let’s get something to eat first. And for God’s sake, put some cream on your nose, Max – you’ll have to account for your sunburn on Monday.’
Markham crashed around in the kitchen while I went off to see to the pod.
I set everything to charge so we could career around the timeline with full power. It wasn’t going to solve our drifting problem. I’d be extra careful with the coordinates, but if the pod took it into its head to dump us in China 1483 instead of London 1605 there wouldn’t be much I could do about it. And I might not even be able to get us back home again afterwards. I remembered the time when Leon and I had been leaping around the timeline on the run from the Time Police – he’d been almost continually under the console fixing something or other.
I dropped to my knees, pulled out the first board, stared at it in complete incomprehension and told myself to put it back before I made things even worse.
I emptied and refilled the tanks as appropriate, topped up the Turd Tumbler, checked the lockers, swept the floor and used my sleeve to dust down the console, because if you can’t be accurate, at least you can be clean and tidy. We might end up in the middle of nowhere but at least we’d be able to have a comfortable crap when we got there. Although not me – wrong time of year.
Markham had done eggs, bacon and fried potatoes. Every mouthful was bloody wonderful. As I’ve said before, he’s not a bad cook – although, in our dim and distant youth, he’d once made a stew in which, he said, the main ingredient had been a recently discarded placenta. He’d been having us on – he has a very strange sense of humour – but that’s definitely not something you want to hear. Especially when you’re halfway through what, up until that moment, had been a delicious bowl of stew. Or do I mean a bowl of delicious stew? Anyway, Major Guthrie had walloped him round the head with a spoon and it must have done him some good because we’d never had placenta stew since.
I tucked in. There’s something about fatty, salty, cholesterol-laden food that does you the world of good even if you haven’t been investigating major historical events in a wonky pod. I was a new woman. I also made a mental note to take some cheese with me when we next jumped, in case I had a funny five minutes again.
