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It takes an age, but Polly is finally re-admitted into the History programme.
“I never left it,” she growls, shoving through the gates of Balliol. “I was lost in the Blitz for months — for years, here! — and Dean Chambers acts as though I’ve been skipping out on my exams.”
Colin grins, leaning off the wall where he’s been waiting and follows her onto the street. “Which, technically you did,” he says when he’s caught her.
“Shut up,” Polly says, but she’s smiling.
The weather is cool and fine. It’s October, and the evening is just beginning to close on the day. The shadows grow along Broad St and the High as they walk. By tacit agreement, they make their way back to Colin’s house in the gloaming. When Polly takes his hand, Colin feels his heart might burst.
“So where to next?” He asks. “Mr. Dunworthy has banned us both from anything relating to World War II. Will you still do the zeppelin attacks in 1917?”
“Actually no.” Polly answers. “I’m to start my prep immediately. I have a drop scheduled in less than a year, and God, I don’t even know where to start. I know French and Latin, but Mr. Dunworthy has me learning Middle French and Hebrew, and my Arabic is rubbish. Not to mention the mountain of cultural and customs training he's required.”
They reach the stairs leading to the small, old cottage that Colin’s great-aunt Mary had left him. Their movement sets off the lamp, throwing a fiery glow across Polly’s face. She’s so lovely that he’s distracted out of his confusion for a moment. He shakes his head. “I don’t understand. You were doing the wars of the 20th century.”
“Of course you don’t,” Polly says, looking at bit smug. “I’ve changed my area of focus, you see. Why do you think it took so long for me to get re-enrolled? It was difficult to convince them.”
She hands him her handheld and shows him the confirmation from Badri, the lab tech. Polly Churchill (M. Hist. - Balliol) First drop scheduled September 23, 2071 it says. Constantinople, 1096.
Colin stares. “The Crusades.” His head spins and he has to hold out a hand against the brick, so great is his shock. “You’re going to the First Crusade.” He sinks against the house, his mind spinning with all manner of fear. The Crusades were bloody and brutal, which was part of his fascination with them as a child. Mercenaries, assassins, religious contempt and zealotry. She could be killed in any number of ways. She could be raped, or tortured or...
Her voice rouses him from panic. “Sorry, what?”
“I said,” she repeats, pulling out her key and stepping over the threshold. “You don’t think I’m going alone, do you?”
She hangs up her coat and makes her way down the hall. Colin stares dumbly after her. “What?”
“I’ve already spoken to Mr. Dunworthy. As it so happens, he’s had a minor of a change of heart about historians always doing their fieldwork alone.” She reaches for a bottle of scotch and two tumblers. “Can’t imagine why,” she says mischievously.
It hits him: He’s going to the Crusades. With Polly. She won’t be alone and he’ll be there beside her. He'll see the Siege of Jerusalem and the Holy City and Byzantium and the Roman ruins and the war for the Kingdom of Heaven.
His face must seem full of panic because Polly sets down the tumblers and looks at him, distraught. “I-Col, I thought you’d be pleased. Oh, God, I’ve mucked it up, haven’t I? I can talk to Mr. Dunworthy, you know. It's just that I knew you had always wanted to go there, and I'd devised a thesis to research and -- ”
He reaches out and scoops her into his arms, swinging her around the kitchen. Polly laughs in relief as he hollers with joy. Oh, the things they are going to do together. He sets her down and she kisses him deeply. “All those years,” she says, pulling away. “All those years you spent trying to bring me home. Sitting in libraries and studying old rolls of microfiche, trying to find Michael’s messages. You never gave up, even though the Crusades were everything you’d wanted since you were a child. They were why you came to Oxford.”
He shakes his head. “It wasn't everything I wanted since I was a child. And I didn't come to Oxford for the Crusades.” He kisses her fingertips. “My battles were far more hopeless, I’m afraid. I never even learned Middle French.”
Polly beams. “We’ve time to learn together.”
Yes, Colin thinks, kissing her again. We have all the time there is.