‘Fuchsprellen,’ I said, pronouncing carefully, and remembering, far too late, that Lingoss had actually mentioned 17th-century sports to me a day or so ago when we were discussing arrangements for Matthew. Speaking of whom … I looked around. ‘Where’s Matthew?’
He stepped out from behind her skirts, a small, grubby satellite emerging from the dark side of a purple planet, gazing big-eyed around him. In the interests of historical accuracy, he was kitted out in a linen shirt and a pair of breeches that were far too big for him. In the interests of Health and Safety, he was wearing a Roundhead helmet, which again, was far too big for him and kept falling over his nose. ‘Is Uncle Bashford all right?’
‘There is no correct answer to that question,’ said Sykes.
‘Yes,’ I said, frowning reprovingly at them all. ‘Uncle Bashford is fine. Isn’t he, doctor?’
‘He’s better than me, anyway,’ said Dr Stone. ‘What in heaven’s name is…’ he paused.
‘Careful,’ said Sykes, grinning. ‘Youngsters present.’
‘Fuchsprellen,’ said Atherton, showing off, although to be fair, in a department that contains Sykes and Bashford – to say nothing of Miss North – he doesn’t get many chances to hog the limelight.
Dr Stone looked bewildered.
‘Animal tossing,’ said Auntie Lingoss, who would be accounting for all this at some length later on. ‘An aristocratic pastime of the 17th and 18th centuries, hence the costume.’ She gestured at her only marginally accurate purple dress. ‘Usually takes place in the courtyard of your average north European castle. You lay your sling on the ground. You and your partner grasp each end. Someone releases the animal – usually a fox – to run over your sling. At the appropriate moment, you jerk the ends and if you’ve done it properly, the unfortunate animal is propelled some twenty-five feet or more through the air. European aristocrats thought it was an hilarious way to pass an afternoon, so we thought we’d give it a go. It’s actually more difficult than it looks and even though we made it easy by only using dead animals, it still took us a couple of goes to get it right.’
‘Would the animal be alive?’
‘When they did it – yes. Well, it was when it was tossed.’
‘And when it came down?’
‘Still alive. Until the moment of fatal impact, of course. Usually with the ground, but in this case, Mr Bashford.’
Too late, I remembered Professor Rapson’s mysterious invoice. I really had to pull myself together. Warning bells should have been tolling the instant Dr Bairstow mentioned it. ‘So you and Professor Rapson…?’
‘We’re the tossers, yes.’
‘And that’s why you and the professor wanted stuffed animals.’
She beamed at me. I felt as if I’d won a prize.
‘So what other animals did the professor get?’
‘Some cats. And a couple of dogs, and some ferrets. And … um…’
Enlightenment struck me in much the same manner as a small dog had struck the unfortunate Mr Bashford. ‘Aha, the Gangly Thingummy.’
‘Gavialis gangeticus. Yes.’
Mystery solved.
Dr Stone, assisting a still shaky Bashford to his feet, looked up and said apprehensively, ‘Wait, can we expect crocodiles to drop from the skies now?’
I was impressed he knew what a Gangly Thingummy was.
‘No,’ said Lingoss, pityingly. ‘Of course not. They’re about as aerodynamic as an oil tanker. We could barely get it off the ground.’
Time to break things up. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Mr Bashford off to Sick Bay, please, and everyone who has not incurred Dr Bairstow’s extreme displeasure is dismissed – not so fast Miss Lingoss – to continue with your working day. Miss Lingoss, you wouldn’t like to pop in and explain a few things to Dr Bairstow, would you?’
‘Actually…’
‘Actually, that wasn’t a request.’
She sighed, picked up the terrier, tucked it under the other arm, and jogged off, her purple skirt swaying around her. Matthew trotted faithfully behind.
The medical team took themselves off, supporting a still groggy Bashford. We watched them go.
‘God,’ I said, suddenly aware of a gaping hole in my afternoon. ‘I need a drink.’
‘Good idea,’ said Markham.
So we went. And we took Colin with us.
Atherton briefed us on the Stamford Bridge assignment. He spoke with authority and to the point as he always did. Both Sykes and North sat quietly for him. The three of them had trained together. North was bossy and brilliant. Sykes was unconventional and brilliant, but he was their unofficial leader. I don’t how he’d managed it. I don’t think he consciously did anything. He was actually a very modest man, but somehow, the two of them deferred to his judgement. Their choice reflected credit on them as well. They could have done a lot worse.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘King Edward has died. Harold Godwinson has been crowned King of England, breaking his oath to William, who immediately sets about building a fleet and assembling an army. He sends an envoy to the Pope for papal blessing, which he gains. In the eyes of all Europe, King Harold is a perjured man.
‘However, Duke William is not the only one with his eyes fixed on the English crown. Tostig, brother to Harold, ex Earl of Northumbria, and brother-in-law to William, has allied with King Harald Hardrada of Norway. The two of them raise an army and sail for England. Three hundred ships sail up the River Ouse towards York. The northern earls meet them at the Battle of Fulford on 20th September and are soundly defeated. The entire northern army is scattered across Mercia, Northumbria and Yorkshire. This is a bit of a double whammy for our King Harold because it means none of them can be reorganised in time for Stamford Bridge or Hastings. People often wonder why Harold undertook the long march north to meet them when, if he’d stayed down south, there was a very good chance he would have beaten Duke William, because William was a foreigner in a foreign land and his back was to the sea, but King Harold has publicly stated that neither Tostig nor Hardrada will gain one foot of English soil, so he speeds north.’
‘Yes, all of History could have been different,’ said Sykes, ‘but we could just as easily have had the same result but the other way around. Harold stays in the south and defeats William. Then races north to engage Tostig and is defeated at Stamford Bridge instead of at Hastings. We could be celebrating the Battle of Stamford Bridge, 1066. The last time the English were successfully invaded. Imagine if, instead of Europe, it was with Scandinavia that England had been linked.’
We took a moment to think about the implications.
‘Anyway,’ said Atherton, rousing himself. ‘Here are the protagonists – Tostig and his ally, King Harald Hardrada. And King Harold Godwinson, whom we know quite well now. Since we have two Harolds and they’re both kings, I shall refer to them as Hardrada and Godwinson. Everyone clear?
‘Right. Godwinson, with little choice in the matter, sets off for the north. Tostig and Hardrada are passing the time with a little high-spirited pillaging and looting. The village of Scarborough has a particularly bad time of it. The Viking army thinks it has nothing to fear. Not only is the northern opposition scattered, but Godwinson is down south, hundreds of miles away and, they think, preoccupied with the Norman fleet heading his way. They’ve misjudged their man, however. Godwinson obviously decides that Hardrada and Tostig are a more immediate threat and he heads north to sort them out.’
‘You can see his point of view,’ said Clerk. ‘If the Vikings get themselves established in the north and William arrives in the south, he could be caught in a very nasty pincer movement.’