This is a short story about a time traveller who finds a way to travel back in time to medieval Norwich.
Henry Whitmore had always been fascinated by history, particularly the history of his hometown “Norwich”. A historian by trade and an amateur inventor by passion, he spent his days researching medieval Norwich and his nights tinkering with a peculiar device he had been constructing in secret.
It had started as an idle experiment, a far-fetched attempt to manipulate electromagnetic fields to influence time perception. But one stormy evening, as lightning arced across the sky, his device, a haphazard contraption of gears, wires, and an old pocket watch, suddenly hummed to life. Before he could react, he was engulfed in a brilliant flash, the walls of his small workshop in modern Norwich dissolving into an unfamiliar scene.
When the light faded, Henry found himself standing in the middle of a bustling street paved with cobblestones, the air thick with the mingled scents of market goods, animals, and the distinct lack of modern sanitation. The chatter of merchants and the clatter of horse-drawn carts filled his ears. Bewildered, he turned in a slow circle, his heart pounding in his chest. There, looming above the rooftops, was Norwich Castle – just as he had known it, yet somehow different. The white limestone walls looked pristine, the battlements unweathered by centuries of wear.
Realizing he had somehow traveled back in time, Henry took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. He had studied Norwich in the year 1600 extensively. If he had indeed landed in this era, he needed to be careful. He couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself, nor could he interfere with history.
Making his way through the market square, he was struck by the vibrancy of it all. Stalls overflowed with produce, wool, and spices. Merchants haggled with buyers, their voices rising over the din. He recognised the location immediately – Norwich Market, albeit in a form vastly different from the modern-day version. Instead of neat rows of colorful stalls, there were wooden booths with canvas roofs, and the sellers wore simple, earth-toned garments.
Curious and eager to observe more of the past, Henry left the market place and wandered down St Andrew’s Street and then onto Elm Hill. The timber-framed houses, though familiar, bore fewer signs of age. He trailed his fingers along the beams of a shop, amazed at how much life still bustled within these very walls centuries later. Finding himself in Tombland, he looked up and saw Norwich Cathedral standing in all its medieval glory. The spire was unchanged, piercing the sky like a sentinel of faith. Monks in brown robes moved through the courtyard, their murmured prayers blending with the sounds of city life. He needed to find someone who could provide him with more context, perhaps even a way back to his time if there was one.
Making his way back towards the city centre, James stumbled upon an unexpected situation. Just outside a tavern near Pottergate, a heated argument had broken out between a nobleman and a commoner. The nobleman, clad in an ornate doublet, was accusing the commoner – a wiry man in tattered clothes – of theft. A crowd had gathered, some taking the noble’s side, others defending the accused. Henry listened closely. The nobleman, Sir William Harcourt, claimed that his purse had been stolen while he was inspecting fabrics at the market. The accused man, a weaver by the name of Thomas Briggs, swore he had been nowhere near the noble. Henry, knowing how easily such disputes could lead to severe punishments in this era, felt compelled to help. He had read about Harcourt before – an influential figure in Norwich’s history, known for his temper and his swift justice.
Thinking fast, Henry stepped forward. “Might I suggest, good sirs, that we search the weaver’s shop?” he interjected, hoping to delay any immediate harm coming to Briggs.
Harcourt narrowed his eyes. “Who are you to interfere?”
“A scholar of logic,” Henry replied smoothly, hoping his odd clothing wouldn’t arouse too much suspicion. “If he is innocent, the evidence shall prove it. If guilty, then the truth will be clear.”
The idea of a search seemed reasonable enough to the crowd, and with much grumbling, Harcourt agreed. Henry followed the group as they moved through the narrow streets towards Briggs’ humble dwelling. Once inside, Henry quickly spotted something odd – a loose floorboard near the hearth. Kneeling, he pried it open, revealing not only Harcourt’s purse but several others. The real culprit was neither nobleman nor weaver, but rather an opportunistic pickpocket who had been using Briggs’ shop as a hiding place.
The revelation turned the crowd’s mood swiftly. Harcourt, though still bristling, withdrew his accusations, and Briggs was spared. The pickpocket, however, was nowhere to be found – undoubtedly long gone upon realising his stash had been discovered.
Henry exhaled in relief. But just as he was about to step away, he felt a strange pull, as if the very fabric of time itself had recognized his meddling. A sharp jolt surged through him, his vision blurred, and once again, the world dissolved into white light.
When he opened his eyes, he was back in his workshop. His contraption lay smoking on the floor, gears still whirring before sputtering to a stop. Shaken, Henry immediately picked up his phone and quickly typed the name “Thomas Briggs” into Google. After studying the Wikipedia entries, he realised that history had corrected itself. The event had been preserved, just with a minor shift in details – Briggs had still been proven innocent, but it had been a mysterious traveller nobody had ever seen or heard of before, who had helped set things right.
As he sat back, his mind raced with the implications. He had glimpsed history not through books, but through experience. And as he looked at his malfunctioning device, he couldn’t help but wonder – had it truly broken, or would it one day take him back again?