‘Sherwood Forest, near Edwinstowe.’ She kept her voice flat and a distance between them. Where was that stick? Keep him talking. Humour him.
‘Yes. You are. Sorry. Wrong question.’ And he shook his head in a gesture to himself and smiled wanly.
Her heart was pounding and she shook her head to clear it. What was she doing having a conversation with a lunatic? He was youngish and certainly bigger and stronger than her. If she ran now he would catch her—if he wanted to. Think, Florence! Quickly! She was no victim and would fight to protect herself from this bastard. They’d take his DNA from under her painted finger nails at the very least.
As they both faced one another there, frozen in the moment, the fog began to thin and she saw that there was something wrong — a gap between what she’d been doing and what was happening now. She’d been with Maud and Tom collecting the mast year acorn harvest. It had been a good day’s work and they had laughed and chatted. Where were they now? And why had this stranger flattened her? Had she hit her head? It didn’t hurt. What the hell was happening today? And where were those bloody idiot friends when she needed them! She considered shouting but predicted that it would make him attack her again. He seemed not to want to attract attention. ‘They’re just over there… my friends. We’re on a field trip. Ecologists. Aborologists actually.’ She sounded ridiculous. ‘Got to get back. Maud! Tom! Wait for me!’ she called, not too loudly, over her shoulder. It was hardly convincing. She blurted it out, hearing the screeching panic rising in her voice. Lame. Run then.
She took off, tearing through the browning bracken and wilting brambles, ignoring the pain of them ripping at her. Her attacker sighed and immediately gave chase. The ground was hidden and uneven as she tripped and staggered careering wildly away from him. She could hear him behind her but didn’t pause to look and within seconds he’d hurdled the terrain and had rugby-charged her midriff, bringing her down with an oomph, gasping for air, seriously winded. She’d never breathe again. She was drawing in dry gasps like a landed fish and her cheek was stinging. He overturned her roughly onto her back and she reacted by pulling up her knees in defence so he pressed her shoulders hard into the ground, pinning her arms. His face was thrust within centimetres of hers, vomit flavoured spittle splattering her. He was angry but his voice remained low and menacing.
‘I mean it! I’m trying to help but I won’t give my life…’ and he shook her. ‘Look! Just stop. Think. What’s just happened! C’mon, c’mon! They’re still around and if they find us…’
Think he said. Think. Florence couldn’t think. This was rabbit in the headlights time. That’s what it meant then. She couldn’t ‘think’. She wanted to run but didn’t know where. Think. No breath. Madness.
He let her go and sat back, his arms holding him up stretched behind him. She thought that he looked thin. Each time he stopped her running, he seemed to have to take time to recover, this strange attacker who vomited bad meat. And as the oxygen returned, Florence did begin to think. She was in Sherwood Forest, Edwinstowe. Working with Maud and Tom on the acorn mast year project. It was Tuesday – about 3:30pm — 10th October. Air was in her lungs again and she scraped herself up to sit facing him conscious of the damp seeping through her clothes.
Quietly, she tried reason, ‘It’s a mast year for the oaks — mother-load. They do it every few years. We don’t know . . . ’ she was babbling now. ‘I’m an aboriculturist with Nottingham Uni. My friends are over there,’ she indicated without much conviction except that she wanted him to know that she was part of a group — a group who would be looking for her. Why weren’t they here? ‘And whatever your problem is, I’m not the answer.’
‘Oh, I’m sure of that much,’ he smiled but without it reaching his eyes, ‘and I promise you, no one is looking for you — here.’ Something amused him in this and he threw his head back and squinted up at the snatches of sharp blue sky beneath the falling leaves. He added, ‘No one in this whole wide world even knows you.’
His neck was dirty in contrast to his tanned weathered face and his hat had gone. Fallen off, she supposed in the chase. Despite the filth, she saw that he was no more than 30 or so with a mop of damp black curls, limp with filth and strewn with debris from the forest floor.
She felt beside her. Ah! There it was. She picked up a large rotten branch at hand and began to wave it at him. She’d read that some attackers back off if their victims fight back hard enough. And again, she crouched ready to flee or fight. She would not submit!
He was weary and stared her down and this time he didn’t move, ‘Listen, girlie,’
‘Don’t call me girlie!’ she snapped.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured and then recovered, ‘OK. Miss. Haven’t you listened? Do I look like I’ve got precious energy to waste tackling random females in the forest? What’s happening here…this is real! It shouldn’t be, but it is and you need to get to grips with that. They can kill us and they won’t bat an eye at it. No one will. No one will even notice because we’re nothing here. We aren’t even alive here.’ And then he stopped the rant, searching for a way to reach her, ‘OK. OK. Listen to me now. One question: what happened just before you… landed here with me?’ When she looked faintly irritated, he added, ‘No. Really. You’ll get some answers. Well, mostly questions actually…’
He was tired rather than aggressive, Florence thought. A strange madman. Indulge him. Yes. She’d been… she’d been gathering acorns from the Major Oak for genetic analysis. She had a bag with her, full of them. Well, they’d gone now. What a waste of a morning. Maud and Tom were nearby doing the same thing. They’d nearly finished, saw the sun beginning to set and had shouted to one another to pack away and get home for some supper and a pint. She couldn’t resist just one last glimpse of the hollowed core of the tree, to be one last time in the ‘larder’ just as she’d done as a child. It wasn’t permitted these days, of course, as the whole trunk was far too fragile and they didn’t want lots of boots compacting the earth around the roots, but no one would know… So, she’d plonked her kit down just near it and stepped inside. And then … him pinning her to the forest floor. How had that happened? Was he already in the hollowed trunk? It was confusing and odd but she had to focus on finding her friends. She was vulnerable here alone with this filthy, strange man. Her eyes continuously scanned the area to look for anyone, anything that could help.
Then both turned towards sounds from the hidden depths of the forest which were coming nearer. In a moment of shared understanding, as their eyes met, Florence would run towards the group and he knew it. Flinging himself at her in the instant that she decided to react, he threw a fist at her temple and the sparkling lights of the leaf canopy blinked out. She thought she heard him say, ‘I know what you are.’
Florence felt the flames of the fire before she saw it. The warmth was welcome. She became aware of how cold and damp she was on this earthy floor. Fuck! Was she going to spend the whole of today with her face in this shit? She remembered immediately what had happened. Her eyes seemed reluctant to open; something was sticking her left eye closed and so she reached up to rub away the gluey substance which was thick and viscous. Her lashes plopped open and the brilliant orange flames guttered in front of her. With a massive headache, she felt bruised and too damaged to be terrified. Then the smell of wood smoke and meat roasting hit her and a voice which was worryingly familiar floated towards her.
‘Take your time. Probably dizzy. I knocked you out.’ He was very matter of fact for a maniac.
She made the mistake of shooting up from her prone position to face her attacker, fury in her bones. ‘You’ve cut me! There’s blood…’ she was outraged. No one had ever hit her before.
‘No,’ he sighed, ‘that’s the slug slime. The night ones are huge and black but you can’t eat the buggers. I’ve tried.’
Revulsion shuddered through her and she wiped the noxious stuff off. Not blood then but she still had a cracking headache and that was certainly his fault. Florence inched her fingertips
through the pocket of the fitted jeans where she remembered lint-covered paracetamol were usually buried as hangover protection.
‘Do you have water?’ Her voice was truculent.
‘Yes, and you’ll be ill when you drink it. Expect it. Wears off after a few days,’ he shrugged, handing her a leather flask. The water was brackish and cold as she swallowed the tablets and stared hard at him, squinting into the darkness of the night.
‘Pain-killers? Christ! I’d have saved those if I were you — for when you really needed them.’
She ignored him, sitting in sullen silence, trying to see something in the blackness that might orientate her. As the waves of pain began to ebb, she spoke carefully. She’d try a different tack. ‘Look, I don’t know what you’re planning or what you want but my friends will be looking for me and it’d be better just to let me go. They’ll have alerted the police that I’m missing and it won’t take long to track you. You’re in real trouble. You should think about leaving here.’
‘Yeah. I am in real trouble — and so are you. Oh, they’ll search all right. There’ll be a police search for you; your friends will look for a long time; there’ll be grief. You’ve no idea,’ he looked pained. His eyes were hooded under long lashes as he bounced her stare back and took a deep breath.
‘I’m going to tell you what’s happened — just because I found you and no one helped me when I came here. You won’t believe me of course — but you should. At least consider it. Having said that, I wouldn’t believe me. I am probably your only hope and not a very good one at that.’ He sighed deeply and began. ‘So. You are in Sherwood Forest, not far from Edwinstowe actually. I’m Nat Haslet and, these days, a Carpenter’s mate. It’s sometime in October, I’m not sure when exactly but if you say it’s the 10th that’s good enough for me, and the sun’s gone down.’ He sounded like a radio announcer.
Florence looked past the fire and into the dark forest. Night-time not late afternoon. Right. How long had she been out? Caution. This guy wasn’t in the real world and very likely a psycho but he was right about the details so far. Was he one of these ‘survivalist’ nutters who thought that they could live out in the forest? Sherwood Forest was a bit touristy for that, she thought. Hardly the Alaskan wilds — and didn’t he ought to be wearing a poncho? She decided not to engage with this nonsense. Common sense was what was needed. ‘Look. Which way is the Visitor Centre?’ she asked, suggesting that this game was ended.
Nat thought for a moment or two and pointed behind him. ‘That way, I think. Hard to remember. You don’t want any squirrel? No? It’s Red. A lot more meat than its nasty American cousin.’
She turned her nose up at the small roasted body on a stick.
‘You won’t find it, of course, so what I’ll do is to try to find you once you get your . . . bearings. Just remember to keep out of sight of men riding horses and be really careful if you meet anyone. They aren’t all as friendly as me.’ This seemed to amuse him and he laughed.
He’d be laughing in a cell when she got out of this, she promised herself!
‘First thing I’d do is ditch the jeans and T-shirt. Marks you as a proper witch. Don’t want to be… indelicate but I’d burn the bra as well.’ Something else that made him laugh. She was already moving away from him and his distant voice floated to her, ‘All right then. Here it is: you’re not where you think you are. You’re in the seventeenth century in England and I’m telling you the truth. Listen to me, miss. It’s the truth. I swear.’
Had she heard him properly? What a nutter. He seemed to have given up trying to keep her there and was busy chewing the pathetic squirrel. Weirdo! She’d no idea what his game was but since he didn’t seem about to stop her it was time to move so, ignoring the dark and the chill which was beginning to creep in, she began to move in the direction he’d waved, willing herself to keep going and straining for sounds of him following. She kept it low key — didn’t want to spook him. He’d probably had his fun. Maybe the drugs were wearing off. All she could hear was her clumsy progress as she lurched across obstacles on the forest floor, tripping on fallen branches and rabbit holes and snagging her jeans in the brambles. She’d never been in the woods without a torch and it was tough going. His voice was reassuringly distant as it called out after her.
‘I knew you wouldn’t. I get it. Just remember: don’t approach anyone. Look. See. Find me if you can. Find me WHEN YOU UNDERSTAND. I’ll look for you…’
And he faded away, saying something else that she didn’t need to hear either. She grinned. Yeah. Right. She’d find him with the police search team and a baseball bat!
Florence staggered on for a long time. He really didn’t seem to be following. Either he’d had his fun or his psychotic episode was over. She snatched her phone out of her back pocket. No signal. Bugger. She used the torch app for a while. 16.43 read the bright display. Odd. Great! Now the phone was buggered. For now, she had to keep going because daylight would make her easier to find by the search party — and by her attacker. After two hours or so of seemingly directionless wandering, she had to rest. She found the stump of an uprooted tree and rested wearily. It was a little higher than head height so that she had some sort of perspective into the forest — not that it was much of a perspective.
If there was a moon, the trees blocked it and dawn seemed a long way off. Her mobile showed less than ten percent battery so she switched it off. She’d make that emergency call once she was in range. The blackness was enveloping and terrifying and the painkillers were wearing off so she was almost blinded by the searing throbbing ache in her temples. Keep going, she thought. It wasn’t a large forest, heavily used by the public. She’d come across a footpath soon or someone with their dog as soon as dawn came. Encouraged by this, she started to trudge on again, her limbs stiff and shock chilling her. She was bruised everywhere from the encounter but stopping wasn’t an option. She didn’t know how long she’d been trudging like this when she became aware of a faint glow of light creeping into the forest’s depths, making the obstacles a little easier to avoid. Dawn. Relief. Safety.
2
Village People
Florence was at the foot of an incline and, climbing up the tufted grass to a ridge, at long last had a view. The aches and pains evaporated as she sensed people. She smelled and then saw a white spiral of wood smoke. Thank God for that! Clambering a little faster now, she dragged herself to the ridge, flopping over in relief and viewed the clearing, where a small hamlet of quaint heavily thatched buildings — part of a model re-enactment village for the tourists, she guessed — nestled in a clearing. It was a steep but smooth slope down and it would be easy to slide down the bank and head towards the village as soon as she regained her breath. She gave herself the luxury of a few moments after her exhausting trek.
She watched a woman dressed in a sack coloured shift with a draw-string neck leave the nearest house and trudge across the grazed grass in rough-shod leather clogs. She fidgeted as she scuttled towards the woodland edge, hidden from the other houses but visible from Florence’s eyrie. In a rush of hands and fabric, she scrunched up the linen and squatted over the edge of a ditch relieving herself — noisily! Relieved in every sense, the woman snatched a handful of leaves and moss, used them and stood, wiggling the shift down around her, shivering in the dawn freshness and dew. Florence was embarrassed to find herself staring open mouthed.
Shit! There’s realism and realism. These people take re-enactment too seriously. Not even knickers! Florence listened, quite still now. Birdsong and domestic sounds reached her — so very reassuring that her eyes began to prickle with tears but she wasn’t going to give into that now, just when she’d survived the ordeal. A small child with flaxen curls, wobbled out of the house, laughing like a small weeble. He’d escaped his clothes and nappy and was staggering with glee into the freedom of the dewy grass. The same woman ran after him, laughing and making the chase a delightful game as she caught him up in her arms and blew a raspberry on his dew damp bel
ly. His infectious giggles made Florence smile. From another hut an older woman emerged wrapped in a thick blanket. Her voice carried over the still air.
‘Jenny Bagnall that child will grow into an ungodly man if you take no care of his decency. He wakes the whole village with his racket and antics!’ she croaked.
‘Oh, hush your own noise, Betty,’ the woman said, not unkindly, ‘Tis not the child’s fault that he wakes in the good Lord’s time to the sounds of creation, and rejoices — unlike some who wake poorly from their rest.’ She muttered and looked pointedly at the older woman.
‘Aye, girl,’ said Betty, with more softness. ‘But the child has not tried to sleep with a husband whose snores could raise the devil himself!’ Jenny laughed with her and swept the wriggling child into the house, happily pinned to her hip beneath one arm.
Florence had watched and listened to all of this and had stayed very still behind the ridge. At first, she’d thought that they weren’t speaking English. Enactment it may be but she just couldn’t place their very strong dialect. She barely recognised it as English and wondered if they were Cornish. Something made her stay for a moment or two, nervous after her recent encounter and tired from the night’s trauma. And so she was an observer, as the people of this hamlet woke to the day.
Most of them made their way over to the open-air latrine and came out from their houses stretching with the morning sun; it seemed to be a communal activity. Shortly afterwards, the men collected tools and began to deal with the animals, tethered or penned close to the houses. Occasionally, smaller animals themselves were driven out of the houses by women wielding brooms which then ejected straw and dung close on their heels. The hamlet was bustling with life and activity within minutes. This re-enactment camp was well drilled. Children appeared, all busy with a task to complete and only the very youngest played around the adults’ feet. The young ones were strapped to their mothers. It was a scene from a painting or a rural idyll of country life captured by a video artist in sun-drenched misty technicolour. Achingly beautiful; worryingly wrong.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 2