Fortune’s Wheel

This is a thirteenth-century wall painting of the wheel of fortune from Rochester Cathedral. Lady Fortune controls the wheel in the centre. At the top the man is enjoying good fortune, the missing part of the painting would have depicted the man falling, and the man can then be seen gradually regaining his good fortune to once again reach the top. The wheel of fortune was sometimes portrayed as a king losing his crown and becoming a beggar, before attaining it once more.

A Conspiracy Of History...

For my brother, who I like to tease for his appreciation of ‘fake-history’ novels.

Oxford, May 1929.

She was late. Eleanor French peddled harder, puffing vigorously at the blonde tendrils that had escaped from their loose plait. Mr Adams had spent a great deal of unnecessary time explaining his company’s latest acquisition. She wouldn’t normally have minded her ancient employer’s wittering tendencies except that today she had made plans.

As she rounded the corner with a screech of brakes she saw him waiting on their usual bench in the park. His blazer lay discarded over the wooden slats and his shirt sleeves were rolled up in deference to the spring warmth. He would have looked like an athlete had his head not been bent over a large file of documents and his hands absentmindedly mussing with the chestnut red of his hair.

She had met Jonathan Fitzpatrick the previous year during the exhibition held every summer at the museum. The second son of a viscount, and naturally brilliant, he was firmly en route to a glittering academic career. She had tried to dislike him for this, but it was hard to dispute his talent for uncovering historical mysteries. His talent and her unsophisticated, yet fervent, admiration for all things mediaeval had provided the basis for friendship. Since then their regular meetings had become a mutual pleasure. He would laugh over her impressions of work colleagues and she would listen to him read whichever paper he was working on next.

She careened to a juddering halt, throwing herself off the bicycle and propping it up alongside the bench.

“I’m so sorry I’m late.” She wheezed, smoothing a hand across the sweaty hair on her forehead and yanking the wool skirt around her hips back into place. “I swear someday I’ll just move into that office and live there.” It became clear as she rattled on that he wasn’t paying any attention. “Oi!” She jabbed him with a sharp elbow. “Any chance you’re planning on rejoining us in the present day Johnny?”

“What?” He questioned with startled confusion and she frowned when he didn’t so much as smile at her regular teasing.

“What’s happened?” There was an unusual frantic light in his normally steady grey eyes. It was as frightening as it was uncharacteristic. He was clearly preoccupied with the documents that rested on his lap. He had barely lifted his gaze from the file and his fingers were white as they clasped the pages. “Let me see.” She tugged gently. “Johnny let me see.” She prised his fingers away and grabbed the file.

She felt no guilt at her bullying insistence. He had obviously brought the file with him to show her its contents. Fumbling with the glasses on her head, that hours of clerical work had necessitated, she leant her face closer to the small smudged typeface.

“This has to be some kind of joke.” She murmured once she had finished reading. “This can’t be true.” She looked up at him but his features were grim, with no trace of coy amusement. “Johnny surely you realise someone is playing a trick on you.”

“There’s something else.” His manner was unnaturally hesitant. He tapped the pocket of his waistcoat anxiously.”You’re right. The file could be a forgery.” He unfolded a single sheet of paper from the pocket. “But this makes me think it isn’t.”

“Did you steal this from the library?” She whispered harshly, ducking a guilty look over her shoulder. Whilst the file had been a typed transcript of a supposedly centuries old document, this single sheet was a handwritten letter.

“Read it Elle.” He persisted desperately. “Please.”

Her eyes widened as she read and once she had finished she shoved the letter back at him with a shaking hand. She pressed it against his chest as if she could reverse the moment and return it to the safety of his waistcoat pocket.

“Put it back.” She finally said unsteadily. “It’s not worth it Johnny. Put it back.”

“Don’t you think we ought to show someone? If there is proof that this manuscript exists it will change history.”

“Did you not understand the threat coded in that letter? Anyone who tries to look for that manuscript will meet with an ‘accident’.”

“You can’t be sure –”

“Can’t you?” Her voice was cruel and angry. “Only an idiot could ignore this Johnny. The secret manuscript might be centuries old, but that letter was written only a decade ago. Someone still wants the truth to remain buried.”

“Then don’t we have a duty to reveal it?”

“Don’t try and pretend to be the hero. You know as well as I do that all you want is to get your name famous and this is the surest way how.” His face registered hurt at her cutting remark. She stood abruptly. “If you’re going to do this, then you’re doing it alone.” She grabbed the handles of her bicycle and tugged it to a standing position. “You’re a fool Johnny. And I’ll have no part in this.” He laid a hand over hers, the big palm warming her fingers.

“I can’t do this without you Elle. Please. Help me.”

If You Are Reading This

An unusual and rare example of a surviving tile inscription at Titchfield Abbey. The tiles date to the late fourteenth century and were positioned in the cloister walk, at the entrance to the refectory. The inscription reminded the canons to think of the poor before they consumed their own meal.

The Outlaw...

The flash of sunlight as he rounded the corner caused him to wince painfully. The crevices around his eyes deepened and shadowed as he fought the eye’s natural instinct to protect itself. The brightness was harsh and unkind, highlighting his blemished and uneven skin. There was no softness to alleviate the coarseness of his features. His hair was a brittle grey and his lips chapped and sore. Every scar and line disfiguring his skin told a story of the passing years. From a childhood pox to his first impulsive fight, his life was mapped on his body.

A blow from behind shocked the breath out of him. They had taken advantage of his momentary disorientation. He hunched forward over his horse, his legs clamped hard about the animal’s flanks. His fingers rushed to the knife at his belt. It was short, useful only if he could get close to his opponent. They were armed with swords, doubling the length of their reach. He felt the bite of one across his right shoulder. It became clear from the quick jab that their intent was to disable him only. If they’d meant him to be dead, he would be already.

Quickly he formed a new plan. Gripping his wounded shoulder with his good arm, he slowly reduced the pace of his mare. It would be safer for him to fall when her hooves weren’t churning up the ground so frantically. He let his muscles relax and slipped off the horse, rolling and grunting as he hit the ground. In the moments that he was curled on the earth he disguised the knife within his sleeve. The ground echoed and shifted beneath him as their horses surrounded him.

“Tie him up Rob. His ugly face is going to earn us a pretty penny.” One of the men dismounted and strode confidently forward. He was grabbed by his wounded shoulder and roughly turned. As the man bent over him, he struck. The knife slipped from his sleeve and imbedded itself within the vulnerable skin of the man’s exposed throat. Blood pumped erratically over his face as the man thrashed uselessly about.

Using the finally lifeless body as a shield he slashed out at their horses’ legs. Ruined they buckled and fell, rolling onto their riders. He was fast and they had been stupid with arrogance. They had him cornered, they thought. But he had been cornered before. The satisfying crunch of broken bones and the mad rolling-eyes of the horses told him that it was safe for him to leave. The wound they had inflicted was superficial and he rose to mount his horse with deceptive gracefulness.

“Damn you outlaw.” One of the men was still alive, the voice thick with anger and pain. A crooked smile cracked across his face. He turned his horse away from the damage he had wreaked. Yes, he would survive for another day, and he would be that one step closer to achieving his revenge.