‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Dr Maxwell. Please sit.’
I complied, eyeing the two mission folders on his desk. This looked interesting.
He never wasted time asking me how I was feeling, which I always appreciated. There was no point. I had significantly failed to suffer morning sickness, swollen ankles, cravings for bizarre combinations of food or any of the symptoms typical of your gravid female. Occasionally I suffered a little absent-mindedness. Twice Leon, my husband, had found his beer under the bathroom washbasin and the toilet cleaner in the fridge, and if he wanted to put that down to baby brain that was fine with me.
‘Two assignments. Both from the usual source.’
He was referring to the University of Thirsk. Our employers. Or so they liked to think.
‘So what have we got, sir?’
The first is to observe the coronation of George IV …’
‘OK,’ I said, mentally assigning that one to someone else. Anyone else.
‘And the other is …’ he paused dramatically, because if he does have a weakness, it’s to be a bit of a showman, ‘Arminius.’
I was enthusiastic. ‘Herman the German! Cool.’
He leaned back. ‘Yes, but not for you. I’d like you to give Arminius to Mr Clerk.’
‘What? But why?’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘I’m pregnant, sir,’ I said indignantly. ‘Not diseased. Or incapable. Or deficient.’
He raised the other eyebrow, effortlessly indicating that, for me, it was possible to be all four simultaneously.
‘That was the deal, Dr Maxwell. No hazardous jumps. If you decline the coronation, I can always send Miss Sykes. She needs the experience.’
‘So George IV or nothing at all.’
‘How quickly you grasp my meaning.’
‘Being pregnant has given me superpowers, sir. Which you could use to the advantage of St Mary’s by sending me to the Teutoburg Forest and Mr Clerk to Westminster Abbey.’
‘I don’t think you will find this assignment to be lacking in excitement.’
‘But it’s so …’ I paused.
He looked up. ‘So …?’
‘So … girlie, sir.’
He sat back and prepared to enjoy himself. I sometimes think winding me up is the one small daily pleasure he allows himself.
I gritted my teeth and persevered. ‘The Battle of the Teutoburg Forest is the battle that halted the Roman advance across Germany. A key point in History, and as such, sir, you need an experienced historian to lead the mission and …’
‘Do you doubt Mr Clerk?’
‘No sir, he’s very competent. It’s just that he’s not …’ I paused to grope for a word, which was a mistake.
‘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.