An Argumentation of Historians

Book 9: Chronicles of St. Mary's

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Time Travel; Contemporary Fantasy

Synopsis

The ninth book in the bestselling Chronicles of St Mary's series which follows a group of tea-soaked disaster magnets as they hurtle their way around History. If you love Jasper Fforde or Ben Aaronovitch, you won't be able to resist Jodi Taylor.

They say you shouldn't push your luck. Max gives her own luck a massive shove every day - and it's only a matter of time until luck pushes back...

January 1536 - the day of Henry VIII's infamous jousting accident. Historians from St Mary's are there in force, recording and documenting. And, arguing - obviously.

A chance meeting between Max and the Time Police leads to a plan of action. And, it's one that will have very serious consequences - especially for Max. Her private life is already more than a little rocky. But with Leon recovering and Matthew safe in the future there will never be a better opportunity to bring down Clive Ronan, once and for all.

From Tudor England to the burning city of Persepolis - and from a medieval siege to a very nasty case of 19th century incarceration - Max is determined that this time, he will not escape.

(P) 2018 Audible, Ltd

Release date: January 1, 2019

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 320

Sample

Author’s note

When we put together The Long and Short of It, I thought I’d write an introduction to each story, telling how and why it came about, what was the thinking behind it and the circumstances under which it was written.

I personally thought this brief glimpse into my thought processes would frighten the living daylights out of normal, intelligent, charming people – i.e. my readers – but not so. The intros proved to be nearly as popular as the stories themselves, and that’s not hurtful at all, is it?

Anyway, I was struggling away at the typeface when the command came down from the cloud-cloaked Accent Press penthouse.

‘The intros went quite well. It might be a good idea to do one for the next book. Only a suggestion, of course.’

As an author, I know on which side my bread’s buttered. As an Accent Press author, I know on which side the electrodes are lubricated, and made haste to comply.

‘Oh, and for God’s sake make the book a bit more cheerful this time,’ was the supplementary command, relayed by a sweating minion. ‘Your last effort traumatised so many readers we had to set up a counselling group.’

While on this subject, I’ve been asked to say that for anyone still suffering the after-effects of that fine book And the Rest Is History, a few places still remain on the Accent Press sponsored ‘Oh For God’s Sake Get Over It and Stop Being Such a Baby’ Support Group. Sessions are held every Wednesday and are open to all. To enrol, please bring either the deeds of your house or your first-born – whichever can be most easily translated into cash.

So, here it is, the next Chronicle. An Argumentation of Historians – and yes, it is, I think, a little more light-hearted. There are no fewer disasters, but everyone is very cheerful about them because, of course, I’m not lulling you all into a false sense of security at all, am I?

Anyway, to bang on with the intro: there are certain time-travel scenarios I never wanted to get involved with. For instance, the one where the heroine goes back in time and is swept off her feet by a handsome contemporary who, inexplicably, falls in love with a woman with no land, no fortune, no skills and no important male relations either to protect her or give her status. Never mind that she looks strange, speaks even more strangely, is entirely ignorant of the world around her and seems not to have any idea of her proper place in it. Despite all that their love would cross time itself – she would abandon everything for his sake – and they would live happily ever after.

No heroine of mine – I said – would ever fall in love with a contemporary and, inexplicably, abandon hot baths, chocolate, antibiotics, dentists, central heating, universal suffrage, contraception, tea, toad-in-the-hole, bras, soap that doesn’t strip your skin away, Lycra, books, and the safe removal of a volatile appendix, to live in a cold, damp, draughty castle with no plumbing – indeed no comforts of any kind – no matter how handsome and romantic the hero.

And then I thought: well, what if the hero wasn’t romantic at all? In any way. And neither was the heroine. What if they could barely communicate? What if their mindsets were worlds apart? What if he found her behaviour inexplicable? What if, despite all her best efforts to fit in, she lurched from one crisis to the next, astounding and frightening those around her? How long would she last?

Everyone has their own place in time. They may not like it. It might not be pleasant. But it’s their place and it fits them perfectly and to leave it is always to court catastrophe.

Dramatis Thingummy

Talk about a cast of thousands. Have you seen how many characters there are in this book? What was I thinking? My next book will have only three characters in it, two of whom will die at the end of the first chapter.

The Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s

Dr Edward Bairstow

Director of St Mary’s.But for how much longer?

Mrs. Partridge

PA to Director. Muse of History.

Dr Peterson

Shiny new Deputy Director.

Lisa Dottle

Thirsk’s representative at St Mary’s. Suffering a massive crush on Peterson.

Malcolm Halcombe

The leprosy’s cleared up. Shame.

Kalinda Black

St Mary’s representative at Thirsk. Does not do sympathy.

History Department

Max

Head of the History Department.

Mr Bashford

Dazed historian.

Miss Sykes

Psychotic historian.

Mr Clerk

Calm historian.

Miss Prentiss

Even calmer historian

Mr Atherton

Nice historian.

Miss North

Stroppy historian.

Angus

Historian of the genus Gallus gallus domesticus.

Technical Section

Leon Farrell

Chief Technical Officer.

Mr Dieter

Another Technical Officer.

Mr Lindstrom

Quiet and shy. Poor boy.

Medical Section

Dr Stone

Still inexplicably getting his own way.

Nurse Hunter

Is she or isn’t she?

Nurse Fortunata

Lying her socks off to the Time Police.

Security Section

Mr Markham

Head of Security.

Mr Evans

Security guard.

Mr Cox

Another one.

Mr Keller

And another one.

Mr Gallacio

And another.

Research and Development

Professor Rapson

The GREAT Professor Rapson as he prefers to be known.

Doctor Dowson

His partner in crime.

Miss Lingoss

You might want to keep your eye on her.

Mr Swanson

Making a welcome return from Book One.

Mrs Enderby

Head of Wardrobe. Unexpectedly devious.

Mrs Shaw

Dr Peterson’s assistant. Brings him biscuits.

Rosie Lee

Max’s assistant. Brings her grief.

Mrs Mack

Kitchen Supremo.

Mrs Midgely

The housekeeper. Possessed of a piercing scream. Very protective of her towels.

Hammy

A tragic story. Sensitive readers should skip that bit.

Time Police

Captain Ellis

The nice one.

The Pursuit Team

Bunch of sick perverts.

The Clean Up Squad

They do what they say on the tin.

Retired

Ian Guthrie

Still giving good advice.

From the future

Mikey and Adrian

Still on the run … but not for much longer.

Clive Ronan

Still being naughty.

His associates

Should know better.

Lorris

Expendable.

Rigby

Also expendable.

Note to self: this is exhausting. Write shorter books.

Historical figures

Greenwich 1536

Fat Harry

Henry VIII – about to come a bit of a cropper.

Persepolis 330BC

Alexander the Great

Nothing more to say, really.

Ptolemy

Future King of Egypt. Very open to manual persuasion.

Thaïs

A little minx. A dexterous little minx.

Residents of St Mary’s 1399

William Hendred

Marshal of St Mary’s

Walter of Shrewsbury

Steward of St Mary’s

Sir Hugh Armstrong

Lord of St Mary’s manor and all pertaining thereto.

Margery Daw

Washerwoman and a fine figure of … something.

Little Alice

Her assistant.

Roger and Edgar

Kitchen boys.

Wymer and Cuthbert

Stable boys. Chasing anything in a skirt and terrified that one day they’ll succeed.

Dick and the other one

Scullions.

Fat Piers

The original foul-mouthed chef.

Ranulf

Village priest.

Rowena

His ‘housekeeper’.

Joan of Rouen

Never remembers to have a dock leaf handy.

Owen

Guard and alibi.

Tam the Welshman

William’s second in command.

Onion Man

Professional runt.

From the village

Pikey Peter

Poor boy.

Eadgytha

His mum.

Margaret Brewer

Runs the pub.

Big Alice

Her assistant.

From medieval Rushford

Guy, Lord Rushford

A villain.

Jerald

His brother. Just fractionally unstable …

Female stall holder

Drives a hard bargain.

From 19th-century Rushford

Street urchin

Thieving little git.

A conifer tree that doesn’t deserve what is about to happen to it.



I’d like to say we were all back together again, but that was no longer true. We would never all be back together again. Helen Foster was dead and I missed her every day.

Ian Guthrie had been so badly injured he would never return to the Security Section. He and Elspeth Grey were leaving to start a new life just as soon as he was well enough. They had a plan, he said, and no, he certainly wasn’t going to jeopardise its chances of success by telling an historian.

Markham had recovered well. Well enough to enjoy all the sympathy and admiration, anyway. His tale of saving lives, being blown up and surviving a dramatic crash landing in Constantinople grew more detailed and more dramatic with every telling.

Hawking Hangar was repaired. The roof was back on and, thanks to the heroic efforts of the Technical Section, we had a few working pods. Enough to get us back in business, anyway. It takes a lot to keep St Mary’s down.

For his own safety, Matthew, our son, was living in the future under the guardianship of the Time Police. The supposedly temporary arrangement was stretching on and on and I should be doing something about it but, at the moment, I had my hands full with Leon. By mutual agreement, Matthew would stay with the Time Police until we’d managed to apprehend Clive Ronan. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about that and Leon wasn’t happy at all, but since St Mary’s had been out of commission for more than six months, we’d had to leave capturing Ronan to the Time Police. I couldn’t understand how he was continually eluding them, but he was. Useless bloody lumps. But the good news was that Matthew was due for a visit in a few weeks and we’d take it from there.

And Leon. Yes … Leon.

He’d been with the Time Police, undergoing a series of operations and was finally back at St Mary’s, having been detained at their pleasure. For medical reasons, he always hastens to add, not legal ones. He tells people he’s a lot more law-abiding than his wife and I suppose some people who don’t know him very well might believe that.

He’d been away a long time, though, and there were certain adjustments to be made. On both sides. I think my spectacles came as a bit of a surprise to him – even though they do make me look both intelligent and sexy. He made haste to agree.

‘And,’ I informed him as he undressed for bed, ‘absolutely brilliant for identifying who you’re in bed with.’

About to pull his T-shirt over his head, he paused and looked around.

‘Who else has been in here?’

‘Well, that’s the point I’m trying to make, isn’t it? Could have been anyone. We’ll never know.’

‘I had no idea so many people were trying to get you into bed.’

‘Neither did I, but, thanks to the miracle of modern optics, those days are done.’

‘I’m not sure I find that quite as reassuring as you intended.’

‘Who said I intended to be reassuring?’

Joking aside, his recovery had been slow. Rather like his current top speed, as I remarked one day. We had just returned from breakfast and I was about to make him comfortable on the sofa, prior to shooting off to the 1536 briefing.

‘I’ll see you at dinner,’ he said, parking his walking stick against the coffee table.

‘Shouldn’t you be setting off now?’

He sighed. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Well, at the speed you move these days, if you don’t set off now it’ll be tomorrow by the time you get there.’

I was instructed to go and join all the other idiots in the History Department.

I settled him with a coffee and handed him his newspaper already folded open at the familiar headline – “ENGLAND SLUMP TO MASSIVE DEFEAT” – a headline that could refer to any England performance since 1966. Just to cheer him up I pointed out how difficult it is to find an article describing our football team’s performance which doesn’t begin “ENGLAND SLUMP TO MASSIVE DEFEAT”.

He humphed, so I hastily refolded the paper to the science pages and handed it to him. Not a good move. There was talk of the Mars Project being delayed again.

‘They’ll get there,’ I said, as he pointed this out.

He humphed again. ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’

‘I’m wondering if I should stop you drinking coffee. It’s making you very grumpy.’

‘Haven’t you gone to work yet?’

‘On my way,’ I said, whisking myself out of the door. ‘Play nicely with yourself.’

‘I think you mean “by yourself”.’

‘I know what I mean.’

At some point in the day he would make his way down to Hawking, lower himself painfully onto a chair, and preside over whatever it is techies find to do in there all day long. We would meet again for dinner. Often, Peterson or Dieter would join us and we would all chatter bravely, but none of this disguised his slow recovery. He was bored and frustrated.

We all work for the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s Priory, situated just outside of Rushford. Our main function is to investigate major historical events in contemporary time, although not recently. Our attempts to apprehend the renegade Clive Ronan had gone disastrously wrong and his revenge had been swift. An hour later, Helen Foster was dead and he’d kidnapped our baby son, Matthew. Leon had got him back eventually, but that hadn’t been the end of it. Ronan had set off an enormous explosion that had nearly destroyed Hawking, wrecked most of our pods and caused some very serious injuries. You wouldn’t think one person could do so much damage but I think we had all been guilty of underestimating him. It’s when he’s cornered that he’s at his most dangerous. Anyway, the combined efforts of St Mary’s and the Time Police to capture Ronan had proved unsuccessful. He was still out there somewhere.

And we were all here. Peterson, slowly recovering from Helen’s death, was our shiny new Deputy Director; Markham had been made Head of Security; and I was back on the active list after injuring myself in Constantinople. As Peterson said, we were all very staid and respectable now, as befitted our advancing years. Our days of rocketing around the timeline enjoying ourselves and evading death by the skin of our teeth were over and done with. Our lives were about rules, regulations, paperwork and standing back to let the next generation have their turn.

I’m sorry – I don’t know why I’m laughing.

‘Right you lot,’ I said. ‘Greenwich Palace, 24th January, 1536.’

A stir of anticipation ran around the room.

We were in my office, settling down with the tea and biscuits that would have been provided by my assistant Miss Lee, if she had even the faintest idea of what her job entailed.

‘The rule of three again,’ I said. ‘Three pods with three people in each. Dr Peterson, Mr Markham and me in Number Eight. Mr Clerk, Mr Evans and Miss North in Number Five, and Mr Bashford, Mr Cox and Miss Sykes in Number Six.’

Bashford stirred. I was taking a bit of a risk sending him and Sykes out together. Their already bizarrely informal relationship had been strained past breaking point by the discovery that Bashford had been unfaithful to her. After a spectacular pub crawl one evening, Bashford had somehow become separated from the pack and found himself on the wrong end of a large group of inebriated young men. Fortunately, Angus had turned up. The two of them had fought together and bonded. Angus was now BBF – Bashford’s Best Friend – and slept every night on his wardrobe, both of them oblivious to Sykes’ loudly uttered complaints.

In the same way we have asymmetric warfare, Bashford and Sykes could be described as an asymmetric couple. Basically, he hadn’t got a clue what was going on, although, as Markham had said, since he was usually unconscious for at least half the day, it didn’t matter much anyway.

Sykes now threw Bashford a look that, had he noticed, would have curled his toenails. Being Bashford, however, he was entirely unaware of his peril. I could only admire his unconcern. She wasn’t known as Psycho Psykes for nothing. I resolved to keep an eye on them and, if things got sticky, I’d swap North for Sykes to keep her and Bashford apart. I sighed. Life never used to be this difficult. On the other hand, I did have a certain amount of sympathy for her. It can’t be easy, sharing your man with a chicken.

Atherton and Prentiss would stay behind on this one. Just in case. We’d discovered the hard way that it’s really not a good idea to send all your people off on the same assignment because then you don’t have a rescue team. If – when – this one went tits up, the two of them, together with as many of the Security Section as we could herd into one pod, would be our back-up and our rescue.

So, I had historians down one side of the table, bashing away at their scratchpads, the Security Section down the other, pretending to look cool and fooling no one, with Miss Dottle at the foot and – no surprise there – as close to Peterson as she could get.

Her former boss, the idiot Halcombe, was still on leprosy leave, being treated for an illness we all knew he didn’t have, leaving his less than faithful lieutenant to hitch her wagon to the St Mary’s star. She’d enthusiastically participated in several jumps – at least two of which had been unauthorised – and had settled down at St Mary’s as Thirsk’s representative on earth. She could frequently be seen scurrying around with armfuls of files looking busy and important and happy.

Gone was the mousey, dumpy Dottle with the slightly protruding front teeth, the badly styled hair and the droopy cardigans. This Dottle had cut and coloured her hair and wore make-up. She no longer spent her evenings alone in the bar reading romantic fiction about voluptuous young women barely able to keep their clothes on in a crisis, but could frequently be found with the younger historians and techies, clutching a spritzer, flushed with excitement and wine and thoroughly enjoying herself. I often wondered what would happen if – or more probably when – her boss, the idiot Halcombe, came back.

She still had a bit of a thing for Peterson – understandably, he said. He was only surprised that it didn’t happen more often. Since her passion for him was in much better taste than her passion for the unspeakable Halcombe, people let it go and just grinned when she blushed furiously every time he spoke to her. Or walked past her. Or was even in the same room as her.

As to his feelings for her – I had no clue until the day Markham, Peterson and I had bumped into her on our way out of the dining room. Markham was carrying the tea, I had the chocolate, and Peterson had a plate of chips. I can’t remember what we were doing that afternoon but it was obviously something requiring a great deal of strenuous mental effort.

She bumped straight into Peterson.

Markham and I exchanged knowing glances.

‘Oh, I’m sorry – are you all right?’ she said, covered in confusion.

‘Yes,’ he said faintly, ‘but I think you might have crushed my chips.’

It was just a joke – something any of us might have said – but she shot him a look from the corner of her eye, said mischievously, ‘Oh, is that’s what they’re calling them these days?’ then looked horrified, blushed scarlet and shot off in some disarray.

Peterson watched her go.

Markham and I looked at each other.

‘Shut up,’ said Peterson, not even looking round.

We said nothing.

‘I mean it,’ he said.

We said nothing.

He sighed in exasperation. ‘You two are so childish, you know …’

We said nothing.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ And he stamped off in the direction lately taken by Miss Dottle.

‘She’s well and truly crushed his chips, hasn’t she?’ said Markham, and we continued with our afternoon.

Anyway, back to the briefing.

‘Something interesting to celebrate our return to normal working,’ I said, bringing up a few images. ‘The infamous jousting tournament at Greenwich Palace. The one possibly held to celebrate – if that’s the word I want – the death of Henry’s first queen, Katherine of Aragon. Things are going quite well for Henry – the inconvenient wife has died, his current wife, that’s Anne Boleyn, is pregnant and this could be his longed-for heir. However, as we know, the king comes a massive cropper and, for him, nothing is ever quite the same afterwards. He incurs a serious head injury which, supposedly, leads to a complete personality change.’

‘Debatable,’ said North. ‘If you’re going on to say he developed tendencies toward extreme paranoia and cruelty, it’s only fair to say he had all those before the accident. Remember, he’s already executed Thomas More and his harshness to Queen Katherine and Princess Mary was well documented long before he fell off his horse.’

‘I don’t agree,’ said Sykes at once. Well, she wouldn’t, would she? The two of them never agreed over anything. ‘All contemporary reports say the king was sporty, fit, popular and generous. He was generally reckoned to epitomise all the kingly virtues. It was only after his accident that he started to develop tyrannical tendencies.’

‘Wrong,’ argued North, and we all sat back to let them get on with it. ‘He certainly didn’t enjoy perfect health. He’s already survived bouts of smallpox and malaria. There’s a possibility he might even have been suffering from syphilis.’

‘There’s no proof of that,’ Sykes said, scornfully. ‘He wasn’t exactly rotting away in front of people, was he?’

‘His leg wouldn’t heal.’

‘It was a varicose ulcer caused by wearing his garters too tightly,’ countered Sykes, the light of battle in her eye. ‘They don’t heal quickly even today.’

‘It wasn’t the first accident he’d suffered. He’d sustained a previous head wound on another occasion when he forgot to lower his visor.’

‘He didn’t lose consciousness on that occasion, though. For this one, he was unconscious for over two hours and when he woke up everyone agreed his personality had changed. He became grasping, covetous and …’

‘He’s a Tudor,’ North said scornfully. ‘He was all that anyway.’

‘Experts agree he definitely exhibited signs of brain damage when he believed those ridiculous stories about Anne Boleyn’s adultery.’

‘Really? Well, she was no better than she should be. Suppose – just suppose for one minute – that the stories are true. Desperate for an heir, Anne has an affair. And who better than her brother?’

‘Keeps it in the family, I suppose,’ said Sykes nastily.

‘Well, he’s never going to betray her, is he? Yes, I know the prevailing view is that she was innocent, but this is the woman who refused to settle for being his mistress, held out for marriage, had no qualms when Henry divorced his wife – whom she had served as lady-in-waiting, by the way – or when he broke with Rome, or when he executed one of his closest friends, and she played a major part in Wolsey’s downfall. All she has to do is produce a male heir and her position is secure forever. Is it too much of a stretch to imagine that with so much at stake, she wouldn’t stoop to a little adultery?’

‘Enough,’ I said, before they climbed over the table and started having a go at each other.

I often wonder if other professions have this difficulty. I mean, do you ever get a geologist shouting, ‘I tell you, it’s oolitic limestone, you idiot.’ And his colleague yelling back, ‘No, it’s not. Surely any imbecile can see it’s an ultramafic, ultrapotassic intrusive rock dominated by mafic phenocrysts in a feldspar groundmass. Are you a complete moron?’

I once mentioned my theory about non-historian debates to the Chancellor of the University of Thirsk and I could hear her laughing all the way down the corridor.

‘Yes,’ said Clerk, leaping into the breach, bless him. ‘Well, it’s a bad year all round. His first wife dies, his second wife miscarries that vital heir, Cromwell finds evidence of adultery, there’s all the scandal of the trial and Henry’s virility is mocked in court, he executes Anne Boleyn, his illegitimate and only son Henry Fitzroy dies, the Pilgrimage of Grace kicks off … it just goes on and on.’

‘Katherine’s death wasn’t a bad thing for Henry,’ objected Sykes.

‘It was for Anne Boleyn,’ said North. ‘She was Anne’s protection. Even Henry VIII couldn’t take a third wife with two still living.’

‘Be that as it may,’ I said, dragging them back on track again. ‘We will, with luck, be able to form an opinion as to his physical state, if not his mental one. I want details of how he’s received by the crowd. Is he still popular? Do the common people love him? We know Anne Boleyn’s not there, which is a shame, but Miss North and Mr Clerk, you’ll be opposite the royal stand and I’d like you to pay particular attention to what happens there. Is Jane Seymour present? Does Henry single her out in any way?’

They nodded, bashing away at their scratchpads.

‘Miss Sykes and Mr Bashford, I’d like you near Henry’s pavilion. We need to know if they take him straight to the palace after the accident, or whether they take him to his tent first. What sort of condition is he in? Will you be able to see if they administer any medical treatment? I expect they’ll try and take off his helmet – not a problem since there weren’t any neck or spinal injuries – so try and get a good look at him then.’

‘Dr Peterson and I will concentrate on the accident itself. We’ll be on the stand side because I’m betting that’s the side Henry will choose – he’s very vain and that’s where people will get their best view of him.

‘Regarding costumes – we’ll be our usual middle-of-the-road selves – too prosperous to kick but not rich enough to rob. Ladies: woollen dresses; linen undergarments. Belts with pouches for anything important. Rules regarding hair are beginning to relax, but cover it anyway, just to be on the safe side. Gentlemen: woollen tunics; knee trousers; stockings and shoes. You know the drill. Report to Mrs Enderby later today, please; she is expecting you. Any questions?’

They shook their heads.

‘In that case, thank you everyone. Report to Hawking at 10:00 Tuesday.’



I assembled my teams outside Number Eight and we checked each other over for forgotten jewellery, inadvertently acquired tattoos, wristwatches etc., because it was some time since we’d done this. I was actually quite nervous. There was a lot riding on today. According to Dr Bairstow, the equivalent of the Third World’s debt had been spent on us and we’d better prove we were worth it.

Looking around, Hawking seemed almost back to normal. Exploding pods had gouged great lumps out of the walls, but that had all been smoothed over. The crater in the floor had been filled in and the permanent roof was on. All the electrics, together with what Dieter had insisted on referring to as ‘the fiddly bits’, had taken considerably longer, though, and we still had only four working pods. Number One had been cannibalised to repair the others. Number Two was almost back together again. Number Three was still u/s but not for long. Number Four had been blown out of existence and was being completely rebuilt, as was TB2, our transport pod. The jury was still out over whether Number Seven could be saved. Numbers Five, Six and Eight were ready to go.

All the pods had been or were in the process of being upgraded and enlarged, because over the years we’d changed the way we staffed our assignments. When I first arrived at St Mary’s the norm had been short assignments staffed by two, possibly three people, usually historians. These days, our assignments were often longer and more complex and the inclusion of the Security and Technical Sections where appropriate meant we needed larger pods. Numbers Five, Six and Eight had been redesigned and could now hold anything from five to eight people. We had comfortable seats. Well, we had slightly less uncomfortable seats. The locker space was better designed and, in an effort to combat the hot, dry and frequently uncomfortable atmosphere, the ventilation system had been upgraded. Obviously, there had been a certain amount of grumbling over these changes – historians are by nature conservative and resistant to modernisation – although the retention of tea-making facilities, the introduction of even more cup holders and a specifically designated area for the biscuit tin had gone a long way towards soothing ruffled feathers. Before anyone asks, they – the pods, I mean, not the historians – do still stink of cabbage with an underlying smell of defeated air freshener, and the toilets still don’t work properly. I’d complained about all this to Leon who had responded that, for reasons which escaped him, the priority was getting historians there and back safely and you can’t have everything.

I took a final look around Hawking and spotted Leon in his office, frowning at a set of blueprints. I waved. He smiled for me alone and waved back.

‘OK, guys, let’s go.’

We climbed inside our pods and stowed our gear.

Mr Lindstrom gave the console one last check. ‘Ready when you are, Max. Good luck.’ He closed the door behind him.

I sat myself down, wriggled my bum in the unfamiliar seat, and checked the readouts. Here we go.

‘Computer, initiate jump.’

‘Jump initiated.’

The world went white.

And here we were. Bang on the nose. Greenwich, 1536. Fat Harry’s anus horribilis.

The place was heaving. That’s not a particularly historical term, but very accurate. There were people everywhere, all streaming in the same general direction. The noise was incredible. People shouted to each other, street hawkers bellowed their wares at the tops of their voices, women shrieked for their children to come here and for their husbands to go away. Dogs barked madly. The occasional horn sounded, as important peo