Free WHEN A CHILD IS BORN by Jodi Taylor Page A

Abbey since we’d jumped there once before to watch its early construction. We hadn’t seen a lot on that occasion because a huge block of stone had fallen out of the sky nearby and Peterson had peed on me.
    Contemporary records say that at the part of the ceremony where William was crowned, the cries of acknowledgement were so enthusiastic that the soldiers stationed outside panicked and set fire to part of the building, thereby unleashing riots and generally disruptive behaviour.
    ‘Typical military,’ said Peterson, wading through a snowdrift.
    ‘Yes,’ said Major Guthrie sarcastically. ‘Because the history department’s never set fire to anything in its entire life, has it?’
    How this little discussion would have ended was anyone’s guess, because at that moment, Markham halted, bent forward and said quietly, ‘Blood.’
    ‘Stay here,’ said Guthrie, as he pushed past us on the narrow path and went to look. We ignored him and crowded round. Blood – a lot of blood – spotted the glistening snow. Indistinct scuffed tracks looked as if something had been dragged.
    ‘He went this way,’ said Markham, pointing down the path.
    ‘What did?’ I said, peering between the trees.
    ‘Not an animal,’ said Guthrie. ‘We need to go this way anyway, so everyone stick together and stay alert. For the benefit of all historians present, that means do not wander off alone .’
    We followed the bloody tracks around the next bend. Guthrie was right. It was a man and he was badly hurt. He lay across the path, right in front of us. He wore thick coarse trousers and a long tunic. His head and shoulders were covered with some kind of hood which was pushed back to show tangled, fair hair. His boots were sturdy, but he wore no gloves. A blood-stained axe lay nearby.
    ‘He’s a woodcutter,’ said Guthrie. ‘Had a bit of an accident by the looks of things.’
    He paused. ‘Max?’
    I sighed. I was mission controller. That meant they all did exactly as they pleased until an unpleasant decision needed to be made and then, suddenly, it was all down to me. I looked at the man, blue with cold, barely conscious and his left leg wet with bright, red blood.
    We should leave him. If you want to put it in the harshest terms possible, we should step over him and continue on our way. Peterson and I had nearly been wiped out once when I just thought about intervening in a robbery. History really doesn’t like us doing that sort of thing.
    On the other hand, I’d saved lives when a wartime hospital blew up. And survived that. And I’d killed Jack the Ripper. And survived that. I’d even meddled with Mary Stuart. And survived that as well. This was just an ordinary woodcutter. In the scheme of things how important could he be? As I looked down at him, his eyelids fluttered.
    Above us, a dark cloud passed across the sun. A few snowflakes drifted down.
    I sold it to myself on the grounds that he was probably dying anyway. Even just moving him might be enough to kill him. We were just taking him somewhere to die in peace. And it was Christmas Day. Goodwill to all men …
    They were all looking at me. I nodded and Peterson and Markham heaved him up. He never made a sound.
    Guthrie picked up the axe and examined it.
    ‘Was he attacked? Did he defend himself?’
    ‘No. This is a workplace-related accident, I think. Swung at the tree and the axe rebounded. Hit his own leg. It happens.’
    ‘Will he die?’
    ‘Probably.’
    Ahead of us, Markham halted again. ‘I smell wood smoke.’
    We inched our way forward to see. Ahead of us, in a small, snowy clearing stood a typical Saxon hut with several inches of snow on its sloping, straw-thatched roof. A tiny plume of smoke rose straight up in the still air. A lean-to literally leaned against the walls and several pens and enclosures were dotted around. Somewhere, a hungry sheep baa’d plaintively and others took up the bleat.
    Hanging between Peterson and Farrell, the woodcutter made a