WHEN A CHILD IS BORN Read online

  It was hard to believe this was not a good day’s work.

  ‘Harald,’ he said, faintly and Alice nodded.

  I cleared everything away, throwing what I could on the fire and left the rest discreetly by the door for general disposal.

  I built up the fire using the last of the logs. That was why he’d gone out and left them. He’d gone to get wood. Without the fire for warmth, light, and cooking, they would not have lasted long. Winter or summer, the fire must never be allowed to go out.

  I sat playing quietly with the little girl, Aline, until Guthrie and the others should return. The woodcutter dozed and the woman suckled her baby. I sang ‘Away in a Manger,’ and Aline, who was the prettiest little girl I’d ever seen, la-la-la’d along with me. It was all very peaceful. Outside, the day darkened, the wind rose and the snow came down harder.

  I was just beginning to worry when they returned, banging in through the door, bringing a flurry of snowflakes with them and some much-needed supplies.

  ‘There’s a hell of a lot of shouting down in London,’ said Markham, cheerfully, dropping bundles by the fire. ‘Fires raging, people screaming and fighting. You can hear it all quite clearly from up here.’

  ‘Any chance of getting down there tonight?’ I asked, hopefully.

  ‘Out of the question,’ said Guthrie. ‘The snow’s coming down hard. I won’t even let anyone try and find their way back to the pod tonight, so we’ll all be sleeping here.’

  ‘Will we all have to snuggle together to keep warm?’ enquired Markham, hopefully.

  ‘Only if the sheep will have you,’ said Peterson.

  I closed my eyes. This was so bad.

  I’d never actually failed on a mission before. True, they hadn’t always gone as I planned. Actually, they rarely went as planned, but never this badly. Granted we’d once failed to find The Hanging Gardens of Babylon but that wasn’t our fault because actually they were in Nineveh. Even Dr Bairstow hadn’t been able to blame us for that one. Although he had tried.

  I was pretty sure I knew what Dr Bairstow was going to say about this. In fact, if I listened hard, I could hear him saying it already.

  Guthrie was taping Aelfric’s leg back together. Peterson waited with the dressing. Markham was emptying a box of compo rations.

  ‘I don’t think they’re yet ready for beef teriyaki or sticky toffee pudding,’ he said, ‘but I’ve brought porridge and some packs of stew – just add water. Here are some high-protein biscuits. You know, the brown ones no one ever eats. There are some glucose sweets and a bar of chocolate as a Christmas treat.’

  He bustled about, preparing a meal and I don’t know what he did, but it was delicious. We served our hosts and settled down ourselves.

  ‘This is really good,’ said Peterson, in surprise. ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘A little bit of everything. A couple of packets of beef and chicken stew, and some stock made with snow that definitely wasn’t yellow, before anyone asks.’

  ‘Good work,’ said Guthrie. ‘Nice flavour.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be the liver.’

  His head snapped up. ‘Liver? What liver?’

  ‘I chopped up that nice piece of liver I found by the door. Shame to let it go to waste.’

  Spoons paused in mid-air.

  ‘What?’

  Peterson was regarding his bowl with dawning horror. I wondered wildly whether this constituted cannibalism. Everyone stared at the suspiciously innocent Mr Markham.

  He couldn’t keep it up, collapsing in a giggling heap. ‘Your faces,’ was all he managed to get out before Guthrie smacked him round the side of the head with his spoon.

  Our hosts watched these strange Norman goings-on in polite silence.

  We slept in the cottage that night and it was surprisingly warm and snug. Mind you, there were eight of us in there. And the fire. And a couple of rush lights. And the sheep on the other side of the wall. So from an olfactory point of view, quite lively.

  The next morning, Markham fed the livestock. Guthrie chopped wood. Peterson stacked the logs outside the door. I stood in the clearing and stared down at the capital, as if, somehow, I could miraculously penetrate its smoky haze and observe the events of yesterday. The drama here might be over, but there would be hell to pay when we got back.

  ‘Not your fault,’ said Peterson, coming up behind me. ‘Dr Bairstow can assign someone else. For all we know, they’re down there now, doing a cracking job.’

  ‘Tim …’

  ‘Stop that. There are four people alive in there. To say nothing of the sheep. Who but Markham could bond overnight with three sheep and an old hen?’

  We left at noon that day. They had everything they needed for another day or two and after that, Alice would be strong enough to fetch help if needed. They were pathetically grateful. We were a little light of kindness in a dark world that for them, was about to change for ever.

  I silently wished them luck.

  Nobody spoke much on the way back to the pod.

  And now, here I was in Dr Bairstow’s office. The May sunshine streamed in through his window. Christmas Day, 1066 seemed a very long time ago. In more ways than one.

  He leaned back in his chair. Surprisingly, he seemed amused. Was I missing something?

  ‘So, to sum up. On Christmas Day, long ago, you deliver a boy child to a woman in a rural establishment. Subsequently, three of you appear bearing strange gifts and a family of sheep apparently adopts Mr Markham. Tell me, Dr Maxwell, does any of this seem familiar to you?’

  I shifted uneasily.

  ‘In what way, sir?’

  ‘Do these events remind you of anything? Anything at all?’

  I shook my head, mystified.

  ‘Are you sure? Perhaps if you consider carefully, you may find you have acquired a fresh insight into – a certain event?’

  Always dispose of your placenta responsibly , was probably not the answer for which he was looking.

  I racked my brains.

  ‘Yes sir,’ I said, glad to be able, finally, to pull something from the wreckage.

  ‘Ah.’ He leaned forwards. ‘And that would be …?’

  ‘Don’t eat yellow snow, sir.’

  I thought of the world’s most unlikely Three Wise Men, currently having a quick quaff in the bar, apparently exhausted after having delivered their mystic gifts of casualty kit, kindling, and compo and shook my head, unwilling to be dragged any further into these deep, theological waters.

  He sighed. ‘That will be all, Dr Maxwell.’

  I could have just put the whole episode down to bad luck. You can’t win them all. But for some reason, I just couldn’t let it go. The coordinates were correct. So why did we miss one of the most important events of the decade. Why had we landed in the wood?

  The answer to that, obviously, was so that we could find the woodcutter. But why? What impact could he possibly have had on History?

  None at all, was the answer to that one. Even without his wounded leg, his future was uncertain. The land on which his hut stood might have belonged to him, but not for much longer. A Norman overlord would be installed at William’s pleasure, and then their future would be uncertain indeed.

  What about the son, Harald? That new-born baby, so limp and silent at his birth. Maybe he grew up – and what? Joined in Hereward’s rebellion in the Fens? No. Far too young.

  Dr Dowson, our Librarian, and I, searched and searched but there was nothing anywhere. I spent hours tracing family trees, chasing down obscure connections until late one night, alone in the dimly lit library, I let my head fall onto my arms and I must have dropped off because I was woken by Mrs Partridge; another one who rarely slept. She had a load of files under one arm.

  I blinked and focused.

  ‘Working late, Dr Maxwell?’

  I shook my head. ‘Private research.’

  ‘Ah.’ She peered at my data stack for a moment. ‘Oh, I see.’

  She turned away and then turned back again
.

  ‘Just a thought, Dr Maxwell, but have you considered not thinking like a historian?’ and was gone before I could ask her what she meant.

  I stared at the swirling stack of data. The woodcutter, Aelfric. The woodcutter’s son, Harald. I had tried every combination, every spelling, every date, every event … Nothing.

  I flicked a finger to disperse the data and accidentally brought up the woodcutter’s wife and daughter. Alice and Aline. Alice Aline.

  Something stirred.

  I knew that name.

  I rummaged amongst the data.

  Alice Aline Fitzroy. Illegitimate daughter of Henry I and an unknown mistress. Alice. Aline.

  With trembling fingers, I called up more data.

  And there it was, all laid out in front of me. Generation after generation. Mrs Partridge was right and I’d been wrong. I’d thought it was all about either the woodcutter or his son – and it wasn’t. I’d been guilty of thinking like an historian. Something that doesn’t happen very often, according to Dr Bairstow.

  Because it was Aline who was the important one. That big-eyed tot, peeping out from under the blanket. Who would become one of the most important women in English history. Pretty little Aline. Who would grow into a great beauty. So beautiful she would catch the eye of a king, Henry I. Although, admittedly, his eye did seem to have been caught by anything in a dress. Henry fathered a vast number of offspring, most of them illegitimate. But, he acknowledged them all, highborn and low.

  The clue was in the name – and I’d nearly missed it because I was guilty of thinking like an historian and adopting the values of the time and disregarding the women.

  Because in 1099, the adult Aline and Henry I produced an illegitimate daughter – Alice Aline Fitzroy, and she married Mathieu I de Montmorency and their child was Bouchard IV de Montmorency, (who married the splendidly named Laurentia Henegouwen). And their child was Alice Montmorency who married the Earl of Leicester, and their child was – I could hardly believe it – Simon de Montfort.

  The Simon de Montfort. The man himself. Sixth Earl of Leicester. The Father of the English Parliament. His successful rebellion against Henry III would enable him to call two Parliaments. Two of the most famous Parliaments in History. The first would curtail the absolute power of the king. The second would introduce the strange, new concept of selecting representatives from towns and villages. For the people to have their voices heard in Parliament.

  Simon de Montfort, directly descended from little Aline, who, without a father to provide for her, would not have survived that bitter winter of 1066.

  If we hadn’t walked that particular path on that particular day …

  Sometimes, it isn’t all about kings or popes or battles or the big events. Sometimes, it’s just about the little people.

  And that was why the jump had failed. Why we’d landed where we did. Except that it hadn’t failed. It had been a huge, an astounding, a dazzling success. Possibly one of the greatest successes St Mary’s had ever achieved. Although we hadn’t done it all by ourselves. It was History who had sent us to the wrong location. History had known we wouldn’t just step over the injured woodcutter and go on our way. As we should have done.

  We’d been used before. History had used us to sort out the Mary Stuart muddle in 1567. And now Aline in 1066. Our actions then were part of History now. Bloody hell! This was serious stuff!

  And what else was in store for us as History and St Mary’s inched their way towards a working relationship?

  By making that one decision to save a life, we’d begun a series of events that culminated in the first hesitant steps towards the development of modern Parliament. St Mary’s had kick-started the beginnings of parliamentary democracy.

  Our Christmas gift to the world.

  Sadly, of course, with Parliament comes politicians.

  Ah well, you can’t win them all …

  From everyone at St Mary’s – Glaed Geol and Gesaelig Niw Gear. Waes Hael!

  The Chronicles of St. Mary’s Series

  by Jodi Taylor

  For more information about Jodi Taylor

  and other Accent Press titles

  please visit

  www.accentpress.co.uk

  Published by Accent Press Ltd 2013

  ISBN 9781783755684

  Copyright © Jodi Taylor 2013

  The right of Jodi Taylor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN