Peterson was duly installed as Deputy Director. He stood beside Dr Bairstow as the announcement was made. Like the Boss, he now wore the formal black uniform instead of his usual blue jumpsuit. He looked pale, remote, and unfamiliar. And he’d gone back to wearing his arm in a sling. The dreadful wound to his upper arm was healed, but some of the muscle damage was permanent, and whenever he was tired or unwell the old ache would return, and he would be back to the sling again.
Mrs Shaw would continue to be his assistant and he would keep his old office, which meant he was almost next door to me. Well, we’d just have to wait and see how that worked out.
I turned up the next day with pod schedules and personnel rotas for his approval. He scanned them briefly and thanked me. I thanked him for thanking me and that was it.
Everything was just … awful. Even the weather was awful. It was spring, but every day was darker and windier than the last. The rain never stopped. I remember listening to it lashing against the windows throughout the entire Bayeux briefing. I turned up the heating, topped up my mug of tea – my talisman against everything unpleasant – and we got stuck in.
I’d asked Sykes to prepare the background briefing on this one.
She assumed what she fondly imagined to be an American accent. ‘Previously on William and Harold – The Road to Hastings…’
North tutted and I frowned at the pair of them, but in a way, Sykes was right. Nothing happens in isolation. Everything is connected to everyone else. The build up to Hastings started some fifty years before the battle itself.
Sykes as usual, was bright and breezy, speaking without notes, and bringing up images as required.
‘OK, people – the story so far. William has “rescued” Harold Godwinson from the clutches of Guy of Ponthieu. We last saw the two of them riding off together – not into the sunset as you might think, but off to another adventure. Conan II of Brittany has rebelled and at William’s invitation, Harold joins William in putting down the rebellion.
She brought up an image of the Bayeux Tapestry. ‘As you can see here, not only do William and Harold fight side by side – and no doubt sussing out each other’s technique as they do so – but Harold wins a few hearts and minds by single-handedly rescuing two of William’s soldiers from drowning in quicksand.
‘They go on to chase Conan to Dinan, where he surrenders. William presents Harold with armour and weapons and knights him. A friendly gesture on the face of things, but actually binding Harold to him even more closely than ever.
Because nothing has changed. Harold is still under polite house arrest at William’s court. And it’s been made very clear that he’s not going home unless he swears an oath relinquishing his own claim to the English throne and supporting William’s.
‘Harold’s problem is that the king, Edward the Confessor, is ill and can’t last much longer and if he, Harold, isn’t in England when Edward dies, then he’s probably lost all chance of the crown. Events are closing in around him. If he doesn’t take the oath, then he’ll never be released and never be king. If he does take the oath and keeps it, then he’ll never be king. If he takes the oath and subsequently breaks it – as he will do – then he stands before Christendom, a perjured man.’
‘But he would still be King of England,’ said Bashford.
‘Yes he would. He will claim the oath was extracted by trickery and therefore invalid. England stands with him. The rest of the world will not.’
She looked at me. ‘Over to you, Max.’
‘Thank you, Miss Sykes.’ I stood up. ‘Firstly, thanks again to our Pathfinders, Mr Atherton and Miss Prentiss, who have successfully located the time and place.’
‘Yes,’ said Prentiss. ‘It’s as the Bayeux Tapestry shows – the oath is taken in the cathedral. Not at Rouen. Or Bonneville. IT has the coordinates. We can go anytime you’re ready.’
‘Next Wednesday,’ I said. ‘The oath will be in Latin so brush up your linguistic skills. Same teams as before. Same pods as before. We will take opposite sides of the cathedral. In the event of any difficulties, Mr Markham and I will act as sweepers and go where needed. You all know the drill. Footage of the cathedral, inside and out; the people inside, who belongs to whom and stands where; the oath itself and, most importantly, what happens afterwards. Team William – I want close-ups of William as the oath is being taken. I doubt if even a flicker of emotion will cross his face, but if it does, I want it recorded. Team Harold – we all know that Harold is making what he, and the rest of the world, consider to be a very minor promise, but that actually William will trick him into making a much more serious oath. One that can’t be broken. I want close-ups of his face as he realises he’s been duped and that, whichever path he chooses, whether to keep the oath or break it, he’s in very serious trouble. Any questions?’
People shook their heads, picked up their scratchpads and files, and slowly dispersed.
As the door closed, I turned to Rosie Lee. ‘I need your help.’
She looked wary.
‘I suddenly find myself the proud owner of a young lad very similar in age to yours. He can’t run around in an old T-shirt and dressing-gown for much longer. Any recommendations?’
Measuring him wasn’t much fun. He obviously didn’t like me being so close but whatever old Ma Scrope had done to him had rendered him obedient, if not cooperative. I jotted down his measurements and opened up my laptop.
I’ve no idea what colour his original clothes had been. Leon said everything had been a kind of grimy grey. I suspected there had never been much colour in his life. And they’d been stiff with dirt and soot and dried urine, chafing wherever they touched and letting the cold in wherever they didn’t. So warm, soft and colourful were my first priorities.
I ordered a red sweatshirt, half a dozen Tshirts, a couple of pairs of jeans, a blue hoodie, another green sweatshirt (just because I liked it), some new pjs, a blue dressing gown to replace his too large St Mary’s one with the sleeves turned back, two or three bright and baggy shirts, a blue sweatshirt (because I liked it even better than the green one), underwear, and some brightly coloured socks. I chucked in a couple of pairs of slippers, a pair of yellow wellies, and a bright, warm coat.
And then I had a brilliant idea.
I entered the search terms, found what I wanted, and placed the order.
I paid a fortune for overnight delivery for all of it, and sat back to await arrival.
*
Mr Strong brought it all up the next morning.
I pulled everything out of the packaging and took it in to Matthew.
‘I’ve brought you a present,’ I said, laid it all out on his bed, winked at Leon, and went and sat at the table as if I wasn’t interested.
Matthew’s face was a picture. He’d only ever seen Leon and me in our jumpsuits, or me dressed as a Norman matron, and probably had no idea what modern clothes looked like. The medical team wore scrubs; Miss Lingoss in her Goth gear wasn’t a good example to anyone; and yes, all right, Professor Rapson wore the right clothes, but usually in the wrong order. This was the first time Matthew had ever seen modern kids’ clothing.
I could see he was entranced by the colours, but I think it was the softness that really held him spellbound. He kept stroking the red sweatshirt, and when he picked it up and held it to his cheek, I had to look out of the window.
Leon helped him with zips – which fascinated him – and all the fastenings, and then it was time for The Big Finish.
I held out a shoebox. I didn’t take it to him. He had to come and get it. Inside was a pair of light-up trainers. I’d picked the best I could find. Not only did one flash red and the other green – which I thought would be useful teaching him right from left – but they had fluorescent laces as well. We drew the curtains and switched out the lights.
His face was a picture. His eyes brighter even than the flashing lights.