Lies, Damned Lies, and History Read online

  ‘Pregnant.’ He finished the sentence for me. ‘The deal was that you continue to jump as long as your health permits – and I have to say it is a pleasure to see you looking so well, if a little flushed at the moment – and that you avail yourself only of the … gentler … assignments. I have distinct memories of putting these terms before you, and even more distinct memories of your accepting them.’

  He had me there. At the time, I’d been so grateful not to be removed from the active list that I would have agreed to almost anything, but to see the great Arminius – Herman the German – to be in the Teutoburg … to witness the battle that turned back the Romans …

  ‘I don’t think you will find the coronation dull, Dr Maxwell, if that is what is troubling you.’

  ‘More or less dull than a full-scale military engagement, sir?’

  He handed me the folders. ‘I’m sure you will make something of it. Take Mr Markham with you. A full set of ears is probably not a requirement for this assignment.’

  Markham wouldn’t be happy either. A major military confrontation would be kicking off in the Teutoburg Forest and neither of us would be there. Life is very hard sometimes. Coronations are usually long, stately, majestic, and, above all, respectable affairs, full of pomp and ceremony, with everyone on their best behaviour. The worst thing that can happen is forgetting to go to the loo before the six-hour-long ceremony commences.

  This particular coronation did have a couple of redeeming features. Namely, two of the most unattractive people on the planet. Let me introduce the protagonists.

  On my right, ladies and gentlemen, George Augustus Frederick, former Prince Regent, now George IV, King of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of Hanover. Fat. Debauched. Crippled by massive debts. Gambler. Drunkard. You name it – he’d bet on it, shagged it, drunk it, or sold it to the highest bidder. Oh, and he was illegally married to Maria Fitzherbert.

  On my left, his legal wife, Caroline Amelia Elizabeth of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel. Fat. Highly strung – all right, mad. Hysterical. Demanding. Bossy. Unhygienic. Promiscuous. Loud.

  Really, you could argue that by taking each other out of circulation, they’d done the world a favour.

  Anyway, the marriage was a catastrophe even by royal standards, where the bar is set pretty high for catastrophe. Apparently, George was blind drunk for three days before his wedding and spent his wedding night passed out in the fireplace where, according to her version of events, his new wife left him to lie. Rumour had it that this was the only night they ever spent together. Since nine months later Caroline gave birth to a baby girl, we can only assume he had the most determined sperm in the history of … well, sperm.

  Anyway, on the death of his father, mad George III – the one who mistook a tree for the King of Prussia (easy mistake to make I should think) and peed blue urine – George ascended the throne. His wife turned up for the coronation and had the doors of Westminster Abbey slammed in her face.

  And that’s what you’re stuck with if you’re a pregnant historian.

  Everyone else was off to record the History-changing Battle of the Teutoburg and I get bloody Caroline of bloody Brunswick. I said as much to Leon, whose fault all this was.

  ‘I blame you,’ I said. ‘It’s your incessant demand for sex that has saddled me with the Daft Bat of Brunswick.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, maddeningly unmoved by my plight. ‘I don’t remember any objections. In fact, I seem to remember you being hugely enthusiastic at the time. You did the thing with the … you know.’

  ‘Yes, never mind that now,’ I said hastily. The only way to deal with embarrassing truths is to ignore them. Like a politician. ‘The fact is that I’m off to 19th-century London to watch a bunch of fat Germans shouting at each other, and I’m going to miss one of the most important events in History.’

  ‘That was the deal,’ he said, mildly. ‘You can continue jumping but only the quieter jumps. I seem to remember it being your idea.’

  ‘Yes, but only because the other option was no jumps at all.’

  ‘Which we can easily implement, if you’re unhappy with the current arrangement.’

  I sighed. ‘No, it’s fine.’

  ‘You sure?’ he said, suddenly anxious.

  I felt my usual pang of conscience. Poor Leon. He never complains, but things aren’t easy for him, sometimes.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, suddenly aware that it was.

  Chapter Two

  Although he succeeded his father in January of 1820, George’s coronation wasn’t held until 19th July the following year. It took him that long to plan it. I might have forgotten to mention he was vain as well. He wanted the biggest, most badass coronation ever. Bigger even than Napoleon’s – and he was an emperor.

  The sums he spent were colossal. Parliament voted him £100,000 – which is a lot of money even today – and then, when it was obvious that even that sum wasn’t going to be anything like enough, another £138,000. A total of about £9.5 million in today’s terms. He commissioned a new crown, rejecting the traditional crown of King Edward. He even acquired the Hope Diamond, previously looted from the French Crown Jewels. You only have to look at the Brighton Pavilion – George’s modest little seaside residence – to see he didn’t do things by halves. Sadly for him, despite all his best efforts, the one thing his coronation would be famous for was not the spectacle, or the extravagance, or even his gorgeous self – it would be for his wife, the ghastly Caroline of Brunswick, who would steal the show. And for all the wrong reasons.

  The 19th July was a hot day. Just for once, however, fashion worked in the female favour. I wore a pretty summer bonnet, which I tied rather racily under one ear, and a high-waisted walking dress of light blue silk. Since I wasn’t a young girl, I had sleeves and only a moderate number of flounces. The material was light and comfortable. No corsets were involved in any way.

  Markham, on the other hand, was trussed up like a turkey in a dark green long-tailed coat and an exotically embroidered waistcoat. He wore an intricately knotted cravat that pushed up his chin for that authentic ‘staring down your nose at the peasants’ look, tight breeches, and boots. He was hot before we even started. I tried not to feel smug.

  We met in Hawking Hangar, outside Pod Eight, my favourite. Yes, it was looking a little battered these days, but weren’t we all?

  Pods are our centres of operation; they’re solid, apparently stone-built shacks, which jump us back to whichever time period we’ve been assigned. They’re cramped, squalid and the toilet never works properly. Number Eight smelled as it always did – of stale people, overloaded electrics, unstable plumbing, musty carpet, and cabbage.

  We bustled inside, depositing our gear in the lockers. The console sat under the wall-mounted screen, which currently showed us a view of scurrying techies heaving their kit back behind the safety line. The two seats bolted to the floor were lumpy and uncomfortable, but life’s essentials – a kettle and a couple of mugs, were present and correct. Since this was my pod, there would be chocolate biscuits around somewhere.

  Bunches of thick cable ran up the walls and looped across the ceiling. Lights flashed among the mass of dials, gauges, and read-outs on the console. The whole effect was shabby hi-tech. Dilapidated and scruffy. Just like us. Actually, just like all of St Mary’s.

  As Chief Technical Officer, Leon was checking over the coordinates. ‘All laid in. And for your return jump, too.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ I said, seating myself in the left-hand seat and giving everything the once over.

  ‘Take care,’ he said, as he always did.

  ‘Of course,’ I said, as I always did.

  He smiled for me alone and disappeared out of the door, which closed behind him.

  I glanced at Markham. ‘All set?’

  ‘Ready when you are.’

  ‘Computer, initiate jump.’

  ‘Jump initiated.’

  The world went white.

  There were
many people on the streets today, but this was London and there were many people on the streets every day. Given that this was Coronation Day, however, there were not as many as there could have been. To distract the crowds from any possible scenes his wife might make, a whole programme of public events had been laid on away from Westminster Abbey. There was to be a balloon ascension from Green Park. Even a herd of wooden elephants were to be rowed up the Thames. Something I thought would be considerably more entertaining than watching Prinny and his fat friends.

  At this early hour, I found the temperature agreeably cool. We stood for a moment, inhaling the pleasant smells of fresh bread and – for the first time that I could remember on an assignment – coffee. Oh – and horses, of course. Hot, excited horses always have a strong olfactory presence. The streets were already deep in muck. Crossing boys were everywhere, industriously sweeping paths across the road for a carelessly tossed penny. I was glad of my ankle-length skirt and sturdy half boots. No historian ever goes anywhere wearing inadequate footwear: it’s just asking for trouble.

  Towards Westminster Abbey, the streets were cleaner – they’d obviously been swept for the occasion – but more crowded.

  ‘Keep your hand on your holiday money,’ advised Markham, piloting me through the crowds.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pickpockets.’

  ‘Ah,’

  I’ve always regarded Westminster Abbey as an old friend.

  ‘I’ve been here before,’ I confided to Markham, as we elbowed our way through the enthusiastic crowds to get a decent view. ‘Eight hundred years ago. My first proper assignment. Peterson and I were here as the first stones were being laid. Just before the Confessor died.’

  ‘Really?’ said Markham, fending off a man who wanted to sell us a flag. ‘How did that go?’

  ‘Quite well, actually. A bloody great block of stone missed us by inches and Peterson peed on me.’

  ‘A big success by History Department standards, then.’

  Having achieved our objective, we stood quietly, waiting. I had my recorder to hand. A stun gun and pepper spray nestled in the pretty reticule dangling from my wrist. We were ready to go. And there was not as long to wait as I had thought. Possibly thinking a timely arrival might mean easier access, the queen had arrived early. A clatter of hooves and a coachman roaring to small boys to get out of the way, announced the arrival of her carriage. An anticipatory stir ran through the crowd, all of whom knew she hadn’t been invited. This was going to be good.

  Dear God she was fat. And what was she wearing? Thankfully, someone had prevented her from adopting her usual style of dress, because there were occasions on which she had been seen in public with her dress open to the waist. Presumably, in deference to the solemnity of the occasion, she’d toned it down a bit, but not by much.

  She wore a voluminous white satin gown, gathered under her massive bosom and falling to the ground, ending in a demi train. Her dark hair – too dark to be natural, surely – was skewered to the top of her head with nodding white ostrich feathers. Corkscrew ringlets framed her already flushed face. A hideously ugly diamond necklace did nothing to obscure the huge amounts of chest on view. Equally ugly diamond bracelets cut into the mottled flesh of her plump arms. Various brooches were scattered across the vast expanse of white satin. I swear, if she had stood in front of a mirror and said to her maids, ‘Just throw everything at me and pin it where it sticks,’ she couldn’t have made a worse job of it. It must have broken their professional hearts to send her out looking like that.

  I had no idea what was keeping all that flesh from falling out of her dress.

  ‘Blimey,’ said Markham, beside me. ‘You don’t get many of those to the pound.’

  She climbed awkwardly from her carriage – it took two stout footmen to assist her – paused for the gasp of astonished admiration from the crowd, which never came, and began to make her way towards the doors of the Abbey, still standing open as the last of the guests slowly filed inside.

  As she approached, a number of enormous, ugly men, hilariously dressed as pageboys, barred her path. Her husband, expecting trouble and knowing his wife, had hired professional prize-fighters to keep her out, led by the famous Gentleman Jackson himself. Which in itself was a good idea, but dressing them as pageboys probably was not.

  Whether they actually would have manhandled her in front of the crowd, we’ll never know. The crowd, sensing drama, fell quiet. She stood before them, unaccompanied even by a single lady-in-waiting. I thought she looked rather small (although still extremely fat) and pathetic. Raising her head, she shouted, ‘The Queen. I am the Queen. Open.’

  To say that her voice carried was an understatement. No horses actually bolted, but flocks of pigeons took to the air, probably never to return.

  The crowd roared its approval of the pre-coronation entertainment and took up the cry.

  ‘The Queen. The Queen.’

  Nothing happened, and the shouting died down again while everyone waited to see what she would do next.

  I could hear quite clearly from where we were standing.

  She said, in strongly accented English, but with enormous dignity, ‘I am the Queen of England,’ picked up her skirts, and tried to squeeze between two cauliflower-eared pageboys, each the size of the Colossus of Rhodes.

  Somewhere just inside the abbey, an unseen official roared, ‘Do your duty, by God,’ and with an echoing boom that could probably be heard three streets away, the massive doors slammed shut.

  The crowd gasped. It was an almighty insult. True, she hadn’t actually been crowned queen, but she was the wife of the king and no matter how much they loathed each other – and they did loathe each other – it was still a dreadful public insult.

  She should have left. She should have gathered herself together, returned to her carriage and driven away. If she had left then, dignity and health intact, she would have won the day. At this point, the crowd was behind her. Being Caroline, of course, she blew it.

  She uttered a shriek of rage, flung her ostrich feather fan to the ground, picked up her skirts and showing scandalous amounts of chubby leg, she ran.

  She didn’t walk, stroll, perambulate, amble, saunter, pace, stride, or waddle – she ran, and this was not an age in which highborn women ran. And certainly not in public. Probably most of them didn’t even know how. For a princess – a royal – to hoist up her skirts, publicly show her legs and run was unthinkable.

  Except that it did happen. She ran. Well, no, to be accurate – she lumbered.

  The crowd, eager to see what could possibly happen next, streamed along behind her.

  ‘Come on,’ said Markham, seizing my arm, and we went with them.

  Actually, I worried for her. Even though it was still early morning, it was a hot day. She was upset. She was extremely overweight. And she was running. It couldn’t be good for her. Tonight, she would be taken ill and three weeks later, she would be dead. She really shouldn’t be doing this.

  She ran around the outside of the Abbey, dodging startled pedestrians coming the other way, all of whom probably wondered what the hell was going on.

  We knew she would head for the cloisters.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Markham, keeping a firm grip on my arm as people surged around us. ‘Is she mad? They’re never going to let her in. Why doesn’t she just go home? There’s going to be trouble.’

  She tried the door to the East Cloister first, but someone inside had got there first, and that door was locked. She rattled the door latch and pounded on the door, but it remained unopened. The Abbey reared above her, massive and silent.

  For a moment she paused, and then, nothing daunted, she set off again. For the West Cloister this time. She was really determined to get in. I wondered what was happening inside. Could they hear the hubbub over the music? Were they all sitting inside in the cool, listening to the uproar work its way around the outside of the building?

  She was equally unlucky at the West Cloist
er where she halted, red-faced, chest heaving. And trust me, there was a lot of chest to heave. Her feathers were askew and her gown so disordered that she was barely decent. Now, surely, was the time for someone from her household to approach, take her arm, and gently lead her back to her carriage. If she’d actually had any friends in this country, that’s what they should have done. She stood, quite alone in a wide circle of people, all silently watching to see what she would do next. I wondered if it was at this point that she realised how alone she was.

  On the other hand, she was her own worst enemy. Wheeling about, scattering members of the crowd who’d closed in behind her, she set off again. For Westminster Hall this time, the site of the coronation banquet and where, despite the earliness of the hour, a good number of guests were already assembled.

  And this was where it stopped being funny and suddenly became serious. This was England. You can’t buck the Establishment. You can’t do it now and you certainly couldn’t do it in 1821. It may be old, fuddy-duddy, self-serving, and self-perpetuating – well, actually, it is old, fuddy-duddy, etc., but it’s the seat of power in this country. It moves as fast as an arthritic glacier, but it doesn’t need speed. The Establishment simply reaches out and slowly, inexorably, crushes everything in its path. Inconvenient princesses do not cause it any sort of problem at all, and never have. An order was shouted. Soldiers stepped up and suddenly, everything went very quiet and very still.

  They held bayonets to her face. And they meant it. Just for once, she stood stock-still in disbelief, sweat running through the paint on her face, and her hair dishevelled. The hem of her skirts and her little soft shoes were stained with dust and horseshit. Dark patches showed under her arms. We could clearly hear her panting in the sudden silence.

  I felt so sorry for her, but on the other hand, she seemed to have no problem making a public spectacle of herself, and her voice could topple buildings. She definitely wasn’t happy. And she hadn’t given up.

  We couldn’t see the next bit because everyone else was surging about trying to get a good view, but I know that she ignored them all, still trying to force her way in. Her voice, shrill with hysteria, her German accent thicker by the moment, carried clearly to those of us who couldn’t get close enough to see. The crowd’s good will was beginning to fade and the whole thing looked like deteriorating into a public brawl, when the deputy Lord Chamberlain solved everyone’s problems and once again, the doors were slammed in her face.