So there we were; only four of us historians in an organisation established for twelve. Normally, Sussman and I would undergo a series of small, unimportant, bread and butter jumps to give us experience and work the excitement out of our systems. Roman Bath was scheduled, together with a jump to eleventh-century London to watch the foundations being laid for Westminster Abbey. We should be supervised by a Senior Historian, except there weren’t any left. We got the best they could offer. Sussman and Black disappeared to Bath and Peterson and I got Westminster Abbey. The main purpose of the jump was simply to confirm the co-ordinates for the Time Map, but Peterson said it would be a pity not take a look around; the comment that gets so many historians, past and present, into such trouble.
I liked Tim Peterson. He wasn’t nearly as bad as Kalinda Black who was tall, blonde, and terrifying. She looked like a Disney Princess, spoke with a broad Manchester accent, and, rumour had it, drank the blood of newly qualified trainees to keep herself young.
Entering the pod, Peterson threw himself into his seat, put his feet up, and declared me in charge.
‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Get on with it or we won’t be back in time for the footie.’
I verified the co-ordinates and, fingers crossed, initiated the jump. We landed without even the slightest bump, completely failing to materialise inside a mountain or at the bottom of the sea, much to my secret relief. Heart thumping, I checked the cameras and announced it was safe to venture outside.
‘Excellent work,’ said Peterson, opening his eyes. ‘Do you know the way?’
‘Yes,’ I said firmly.
‘Come on, then,’ he said, and we discreetly exited the pod. He was very good. He stood back and gave me a couple of minutes to take it all in.
I saw more stone buildings than I thought there would be, but this was London after all and Edward the Confessor’s England was a peaceful and prosperous place. Having said that though, most of the buildings were still built of wood. Sturdily constructed and with thatched roofs, but wood still seemed to be the material of choice. Many houses had let down fronts that converted to table tops from which a variety of goods and services were being touted. The noise levels were tremendous. Nobody seemed to converse in less than a bellow. A pall of pungent wood smoke hung over everything.
There were plenty of people on the streets. Some were bareheaded and I could see mops of light-coloured hair. These were Saxons for the most part and taller than I expected. I remembered one of my professors at Thirsk telling me that hair colour was not a reliable way of telling Saxon from Norman since the Normans themselves were descended from Northmen as well. The most reliable method, she always insisted, was to measure people’s thighs. As a rough guide, if the thighbone was longer than the shinbone then you were Saxon. If it was the other way round then you were Norman. I have Saxon legs. I peered sideways at Peterson’s.
‘Why are you staring at my legs?’ he asked, more amused than annoyed. I hoped.
‘You have Norman legs,’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘I was warned about you. Come on and don’t gawp,’ which was a sound piece of advice. Nothing makes you stand out more than looking like a tourist, or a foreigner, or an enemy spy; none of these being good looks for inoffensive historians looking for a quiet life.
I led him around muddy London and we found the site easily. Even I couldn’t have missed it. Here was the everlasting chink-chink of metal tools on stone as countless masons and their gangs swarmed over the site. I was surprised at the height of the walls. They had no heavy lifting gear as such – just blocks, tackles, ropes, man power, and occasionally horse power. But the work was going well. With wet stones glistening darkly against the grey sky, I could easily see the grandeur to come.
I looked around eagerly to see if maybe the Confessor himself was on-site today. He would be buried here in January 1066; only one week after the church was consecrated. The first and last English king to be buried there.
I drew brief sketches of the mason’s marks and Peterson tried to identify the gangs they belonged to. I sketched the shape of the walls. We wandered around the site as we wanted, thanking the god of historians that Health and Safety hadn’t been invented yet.
Peterson paused a moment.
‘Hang on. I have to water a wall.’
He eased himself between two piles of lumber.
‘Come on.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not letting you out of my sight on this trip.’
‘I’m not watching you pee.’
‘Well, shut your eyes.’
‘I’m not listening to you pee, either.’
‘So hum.’
I turned my back and began to hum Handel’s Water Music.
‘Stop that,’ said Peterson, but I wasn’t listening.
I was watching two men walking behind another man as he skirted the site. They both had their hands to their belts and their body language made their intentions very clear.
I took a few steps forward so I could see better and many things happened all at once.
Peterson said, ‘Where are you going?’
Someone shouted a warning nearby. I couldn’t make out the words, but the alarm and urgency were very clear.
And it suddenly got dark.
I didn’t think at all. I don’t know what made me do it. I ran forward two paces, crashed hard into Peterson and my momentum pushed us both back another three or four paces.
Not far, but far enough for us not to be under the frighteningly heavy block of stone that thudded into the soft ground nearby.