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.’