‘I’ll get the bowl.’
He was too feeble to do it for himself. I helped a little. Despite my best efforts, he managed to pee on me Not for the first time. We both stared at the ceiling. I sought for something to say. ‘Have you had your holidays yet?’ seemed a little inappropriate.
With the air of one making polite conversation, he said, ‘How’s your arm now?’
‘Fine. I’d forgotten all about it. How’s your head?’
‘Fine. I’d forgotten all about it.’
It was like draining a reservoir and took about the same amount of time.
Finally, he said, in a tired thread of a voice, ‘You shouldn’t have to do this for me.’
‘You should be grateful you don’t have to do it for me. We don’t all have outside plumbing. Imagine the difficulties involved with aim and flow control.’
‘Oh … gross.’
‘Exactly. Your problem is that you don’t know when you’re well off.’
He averted his gaze from my ham-fisted assistance. ‘You’re right.'
I tidied him away afterwards and picked up the bowl and got to my feet.
‘Where are you going?’ he said, in sudden alarm.
‘Just taking the piss.’
He was awake when Brother Anselm knocked the next morning.
I called out and he cautiously opened the door.
A great shaft of sunlight flooded the little shed. Peterson blinked in the sudden brightness and tried to put up a hand to shade his eyes.
I said quickly, ‘Husband, this is Brother Anselm; to whose goodness we owe our lives. And to God, of course.’
He stood in the doorway, beaming. ‘Praise God for his goodness. This is a miracle indeed. And you, my child, you are well?’
‘Yes, indeed, brother.’
‘And the swelling?’
‘It has gone. The fever dropped immediately. I have kept the wound clean.’
‘Let me see.’
He knelt beside Peterson, who once again suffered the indignity of crotch sniffing.
‘Everything seems as it should be.’ He hesitated. ‘You understand that because there is still a risk …’
Yes, I was still a plague risk, myself. Besides, the last thing we needed now was for Peterson to be admitted to hospital. If he continued to improve, I would ask for the cart tomorrow and get him back to St Mary’s for proper treatment. They would quarantine us in the pod and treat us there, but that wouldn’t be a problem.
I nodded, solemnly.
Brother Anselm disappeared to bring food and clean bandages.
Peterson slept for most of the day.
Brother Anselm visited regularly, each time asking after me. I think my stubborn refusal to develop the disease caused him some puzzlement. It puzzled me, as well. The only explanation I could find was that, after my infected arm, I was so stuffed full of antibiotics that my body had been able to fight off the nasty medieval plague germs and, as each hour passed, it seemed less likely that I would get it. Not that that would save me from ruthless quarantine when I got back.
That evening, Peterson swallowed a little soup, which stayed put. You can’t keep a good historian down for long. He insisted on feeding himself, so I guided the spoon and mopped him up afterwards, grumbling about his poor aim. He grumbled about my abysmal nursing skills.
We settled down for our third night.
The question came out of the dark.
‘Who are you? Really?’
I sighed and sat up. ‘Well, I’ll tell you because you might still die, and it will save me killing you later. I’m Max, but I’m not your Max. That’s how I was able to tell the truth to the Time Police. I was about to die on my last assignment and woke up here. I’m not an imposter or a substitute or a copy. I’m me. And you’re not my Peterson. And it’s not my St Mary’s. And this isn’t my 14th century. And I don’t know what’s going on most of the time. And Leon’s not here. But apart from all that, everything’s fine.’
I struggled again with a dizzying panic that was akin to feelings of vertigo.
He pulled my skirt. ‘Hey. Come back.’
‘Sorry.’
‘What was your last assignment?’
‘Agincourt.’
A pause. ‘Was I there?’
‘Yes.’
‘So tell me … what happened?’
In as few words as possible, I told him about the attack on the baggage camp, his wound, and my struggle to get him back to the pod. I described how I’d hit him on the head, rolled him under a bush, and drawn off our pursuers. It was a bald, factual account, recounted with difficulty, and afterwards, there was a long silence.
Eventually, he said, ‘I don’t know what to say.’
I shrugged in the dark.
I was about to lay back down again when he said, ‘I found you, you know.’
At first, I didn’t understand. Then I did.
‘I thought Leon found me.’