And the Rest Is History(57)

Richard II – son and grandson of mighty men – was weak, fickle and childless. Eventually it cost him his throne.

Henry VI was pious, mentally frail, lost most of the English possessions in France, and was very surprised to find he’d fathered an heir. Popular opinion reckoned that, actually, he hadn’t. Henry too was overthrown. Twice, in fact.

And what about King Stephen? He wasn’t the rightful heir – that was his cousin, Mathilda. Stephen had two excellent qualifications for the job – he wasn’t a woman and his name wasn’t Mathilda, but he foundered because he couldn’t live up to the popular image of a medieval king which, basically, was to be the biggest bastard in the country. Stephen’s problem was that he was just too nice, which was not what people looked for in their king. His ability to listen patiently and sensibly to other people’s point of view all but wrecked the kingdom. His weakness and lack of resolution caused his uncle’s system of administration, so patiently assembled over the previous reign, to fall apart in what is always known as ‘The Anarchy’, and the country foundered. Not surprisingly, after his death, the crown went back to Mathilda’s line. I personally always felt the country would have done much better to have stuck with Mathilda, who would cheerfully separate any man from his testicles as soon look at him, thus easily fulfilling one of the two requirements for the job of king – conscienceless brutality – but she was a woman and therefore not eligible.

Of course, you could go too far. Edward III overdid things slightly when it came to heirs and had too many sons. The family fragmented into the houses of York and Lancaster and gave us the Wars of the Roses.

Or what about Henry II’s boys? Young Henry, Richard the Lionheart, Geoffrey and John happily schemed and betrayed their father and each other without a second thought.

So basically, all a king had to do was keep the realm safe and father an heir. Job done. Recent monarchs have added waving to the list, but let’s face it – it’s still not that difficult. The point I’m circumnavigating is that having a conscience is a luxury kings can’t afford. As opposed to politicians and bankers who could do with having one inserted and yet appear to be complete strangers to the concept. From looking at him now, however, it would seem King Harold was having trouble with his.

His hair had darkened and it seemed to me there was less of it. Although that might simply have been helmet hair. He looked exhausted but, to be fair, he’d had a strenuous week. It was the look in his eyes that gave him away. He had the look of a man whose inner voices gave him no rest.

Sykes stirred and I was conscious that things were getting very hot and stuffy inside the pod. I wished they’d get a move on and leave.

‘Suppose they decide to stay up here?’ said Sykes, wiping sweat off her face with her sleeve. ‘It’s cool, shady and pleasant. That’s why we we’re here.’

‘We could use the sonic scream,’ suggested Bashford.

The sonic scream is brilliant. Some time ago it was discovered that if you broadcast at a low frequency, only teenagers can hear it. Normal people aren’t affected. It induces feelings of discomfort and slight nausea. Not unnaturally, the teenagers don’t like it, so they move on. They don’t know why they’re moving on – they just do. I believe this is now illegal, but Professor Rapson and the Technical Section never allow little things like that to stop them, so we have something similar installed in our pods. We usually keep it for hostile animals and suchlike, but it certainly works on humans, too.

Sadly, the effects can be a little unpredictable. On one occasion we’d caused a herd of Roman bullocks to stampede, causing massive damage to private property, and then, not content with that, we’d gone on to shatter every pane of glass in Hawking.

I was weighing up the pros and cons of activating it with so many seriously wounded people still around when Sykes said, ‘Hang on, who’s this? Look.’

A rider on a sweat-drenched horse was thundering up the hill towards us, shouting as he came. Every man turned to see what was happening. Most of them drew their swords. Two or three stepped in front of the king.

He reined in so hard his horse sat back on its haunches, foam flying. Flinging himself from his horse before it had even stopped moving, he shouted again, looking wildly about him.

‘What’s going on?’ said Sykes, adjusting the cameras and turning up the sound.

‘No,’ I said, in disbelief. ‘We couldn’t be that lucky.’

‘Lucky?’ said Bashford, and then realisation dawned. ‘Oh my God. Oh my God. Quick, turn up the sound.’

The messenger was standing, hand on his knees, struggling for breath and trying to talk at the same time. Someone passed him a wineskin, but he waved it aside, grabbing a man by his arm and speaking urgently. The man pointed at Harold, standing quietly at one side of the clearing, hands still on hips. The messenger hastened over, flung himself on his knees in front of his king, speaking fast and gesturing south.

Yes, we really were that lucky. I couldn’t believe it. He was gabbling so fast that we couldn’t make out the words, but we didn’t have to. We all knew what this was about. I was watching Harold’s face. I was watching the face of a man feeling his kingdom tremble beneath his feet.

It couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

Duke William had landed.

Every man here had only nineteen days to live.