Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles

by Jayne Hackett

  Florence listened to their chatter, hearing words and phrases that began to make sense. When she listened hard, she found that she knew most of the words — even if they were glued together oddly. This group must be some form of isolationist cult — or were they travellers or actors? How strange that they were here in Forestry Commission territory. No one had told her about the group and she’d been here all week.

  After her ordeal, she felt drawn towards the comfort of families and friendly voices but she resisted, with a strong sense of her own misplacement. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. She had orange glow trainers on. Her multi-function watch shone in the sunlight and she was wearing her gold locket and gold acorn earrings. Her short brown hair was tangled with twigs and she was distinctly dishevelled. She remembered what the strange man had said about her clothes and Florence felt the first twinges of caution. Something was off. What was this? She had watched for too long to think that these people were anything but genuine. There were no cameras and not one hint of contemporary life. These children clearly belonged here and were used to this environment. So then: a religious sect, like the Amish, who’d eschewed modernity? Even as she was trying to make sense of them, she knew that the nagging pieces of jigsaw were plain ridiculous. This was Sherwood Forest, a well-trodden and managed tourist destination. There could not be a hidden group here.

  An echo of the man’s words came back to her. He’d warned her about trusting others. He’d said something about the seventeenth century! Perhaps this group was what he meant. Perhaps she ought to be careful around them. Whatever these people were, she considered what impact she might make if she strode out of the woods wearing these clothes, looking as she did. If she offended them, she might ruin her chances of help. Her alternative was to return to a madman in the forest; a crazy man who, let’s not forget, she thought, had thumped her very hard! And she rubbed her throbbing temple in bruised self-pity. So she didn’t run down over the ridge, waving her arms and screaming for help but lay there, quietly observing the rural scene. It was like watching some undiscovered Amazonian tribe, she thought. As long as there was no sound of pursuit behind her, she was fine and it was still too early for the visitor centre to be open anyway, so she stayed put.

  The scene was captivating and over the course of the next hour, she became convinced that this was no re-enactment; these people lived this life. Some of the women hung out wet clothes on trees and branches laundered in the nearby stream. Seeing an opportunity, she decided to take something to wear and then come into the hamlet to ask for help. Hours ago, she’d been on a field trip with friends, looking forward to a pint and an evening meal and now she’d fallen unconscious; been attacked by a man in the forest and was contemplating steeling clothes so that she could speak to an isolationist group! The day couldn’t get weirder.

  Raised voices floated towards her and several women emerged tentatively, turning their faces towards the source of the quarrel. A sharp crack sounded and a wiry man stormed out, fastening his jerkin as he went. The women quickly found something to occupy them until he was out of sight, and then a very young woman emerged, holding her cheek and trying to smile. ‘I have burned his porridge… again!’ she said through her tears.

  The woman, Jenny, smiled tenderly at her, ‘Then we must teach you how not to earn the chastisement of your husband, Tilly. I shall call later to tutor you in the fine arts of porridge stirring.’ Tilly patted the glowing cheek, wiped a fat tear away and thanked her.

  Bloody hell! Florence was shocked. Whoever these people were, they totally accepted physical violence. Tread softly. Maybe the crazy man was part of the group?

  It was a nerve-wracking business, stealing. She’d done it a couple of times from Top Shop when she was very young but had never worried about being beaten up for it. Now, she threaded her way down towards the drying laundry and managed to snake out a hand from the concealment of the bushes, and snatch one of the rough shift dresses. It was still damp but no more so than her own clothes and so she slipped off her jeans and T-shirt and slipped the shift on. She was not about to give up her underwear. Not much she could do about her cropped hair. For added effect she rubbed some forest floor earth on her face and hands. She was building a strong affinity with this element of the forest. She remembered to remove the small gold acorn ear-rings that her father had given her when she’d landed her job, and then she hid the clothes and trainers under a fallen log. God knew if she’d ever be able to find them again once she’d contacted the police. Slowly and quietly she emerged from the cover of the forest and stepped, bare-footed into the midst of the cottages. She couldn’t believe that she was doing this. It was going to make one hell of a story in the pub. She switched off her phone and slipped it into her knickers. They’d have to prise that from her dead, cold hand.

  She walked steadily down the narrow track, which broadened as she approached the village. It threaded its way between the houses. Nothing happened and she felt rather like a visitor in a theme park. Should she knock at a door? The children and the dogs were the first to see her and as they stared at the stranger, they scuttled in and shouted for their mothers to come and look, the dogs barking and snarling. The elders of the village emerged somewhat irritably at being disturbed from their labours by the silly prattle of children. Florence thought it wise to stop whilst the gaze of the whole village was on her — mostly women now as the men seemed to have left for their work. They stared at her but it was the woman Jenny who stepped forward and spoke first.

  ‘’Morrow girl. Be you in need of strangers’ kindness this morning,’ she asked as she took in Florence’s dishevelled state.

  Florence smiled thinly and opened her mouth to speak — and then stopped. She could not match their pattern of speech so she clamped her mouth shut again and nodded. Unbidden, genuine tears came to her eyes, reflecting the night that she’d had. She was truly lost, alone and afraid, and this young woman had spoken kindly to her. She nodded.

  ‘Then come and be warm by the fire and take some food for the soul and body, my girl.’ Jenny reached out a hand and Florence walked towards it, grateful for the human warmth. Her arm was hit away by another hand; it seemed that the crotchety Betty had intervened.

  ‘Jenny Bagnall, have you no sense! Who is this wench, half clothed and looking like a wild thing, to enter our homes? Look at her man’s hair. Does she bring sickness to us or is she marked as whore? Why, she could be…’

  Florence understood that and opened her mouth to refute it.

  ‘Could be what Betty Hudson! A girl who is quite clearly in need of Christian succour? The Lord knows what has happened to her! You’ve eyes haven’t you! Where is your charity for a stranger in need?’ Jenny reproached. Her expression relayed her own concern about Florence and knowing glances passed between the two women.

  ‘Aye, well, she may not be a reputable wench,’ Betty sulked but without conviction, as she gleaned what Jenny hinted at.

  ‘Then the gospel reminds us of our duty of charity to strangers and to redeem sinners in this life. Mayhap we might feed her and discover her story before we condemn her?’ Jenny raised one eyebrow. Betty seemed open to this rebuke and took Florence’s hand herself and dragged her into Jenny’s cottage but her hold on Florence’s wrist was strong and there was a sharp glint in her eye. Jenny smiled at Betty’s change of heart.

  ‘She’s a good woman — if in need of a good night’s sleep herself!’ she said aloud and Betty couldn’t hide her own smile — although she tried.

  They fed her with a bowl of thick gloop which was scooped from a cauldron hung over the fire. Pottage they said. The stone inglenook was the heart of the small cottage but there was nothing twee about it. Pots, pans and various hooks and ladles hung around it and it reminded Florence of the functionality of a commercial kitchen. Herbs and curing meats hung from rafters before the fire and a large scrubbed table, hewn from simple planks, stood in the centre of the room, littered with the bowls which had held a simple breakfast. Be
tty tutted at the disorder once but was quickly hushed by a telling glance from Jenny.

  ‘You’ll remember when your own were little, Betty and how short time is to keep all in neat order.’

  There was no response but Betty began to gather the bowls quietly and place them on the simple side board which ran along the length of the room. It was indeed simple: a heavy rough-hewn plank placed on plain trestles but it did its job. Florence was placed on a bench at the table and her hosts stood and watched her eat. A fierce scowl from Betty shooed the curious children away from the door and at a smile from Jenny, she left with them.

  ‘Now, child,’ Jenny said gently. ‘Life is always a little brighter on a full stomach.’

  Florence smiled. Jenny looked no older than she was. ‘Hast thou been … defiled?’ Florence was so stunned by the directness of the question she didn’t have to feign her stammered,

  ‘I, I….’

  ‘Nay. ‘Tis no shame in these times — though others would have us think so,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘These wicked vagrant soldiers have no fear of their own damnation - bolstered by the righteousness of their cause it would seem. They maraud without the discipline of their elders and betters. We have seen them by the river when we wash — watching. Devils!’ Jenny exclaimed. ‘Do you bleed?’

  Florence was stunned. ‘Soldiers?’ she managed to breathe. Had she stumbled into an army testing ground? Her mother had been in the army. She’d be safe if the army was around. She wanted to answer, to tell the kind Jenny what had happened and to ask to be taken to the field command but Jenny was comforting her with gentle prattle.

  Jenny cocked her head at Florence’s speech, ‘A warning, girl. Take care how you speak and know that all here stand for His Majesty. It matters not a jot to me. Hot for blood the lot of them!’

  Florence fumbled for an answer as some impossible thoughts bombarded her. She’d missed something. Surely that man…? Perhaps it was the exhaustion and this dreadful headache. Jenny saw her inability to answer and decided what she needed.

  ‘Poor child. It seems that whatever’s happened, has addled your wits. You must rest a while.’ And Florence was bundled towards a narrow cot against the wall and cocooned into it by heavy wool blankets still warm from the night’s occupant. It didn’t take much encouragement for her to feel how utterly done in she was but she was afraid to close her eyes in this terrifying world. ‘I shall stay by you. Never fear,’ whispered Jenny and Florence could resist the warmth no longer.

  Jenny watched the girl sleep. She meant what she’d said about charity, and it would do Betty no harm to be reminded of it, but Jenny had questions which she’d not yet asked of the girl. What was the strange contraption, wrapped around her breasts that showed through the shift and held the breasts so unnaturally? And, why had she stolen one of Jenny’s shifts which she’d hung out to dry?

  Waking up and discovering that this was no dream, she found herself alone in the small house and wandered outside fully expecting a camera crew and a smiling presenter to explain the joke — although how something was funny when you’d been knocked out…There was only the same small hamlet going about its business. Jenny was tending to a huge grunting sow in a pen nearby, feeding it handfuls of acorns and smiling as it took them from her hand, ‘Yes my lovely. You’ll bring in a tasty price at Edwinstowe when they know that you’re juicy with acorns.’

  Florence bloody well hoped they weren’t the ones she’d gathered so carefully yesterday. Having had enough of this nonsense, she strode up to Jenny. It was time to go home.

  ‘Look, Mrs… Jenny. I can see that this,’ she waved her hand around, ‘is all very important to you. You do it well, really you do. I’m convinced by the realism – God, even your children have the language — but I really have to go now. I’m grateful for your help but I need to get back to my own life so if you could direct me to the Visitors’ Centre or to the Major Oak, I’m sure…’

  She was knocked back onto her bottom by the force of the slap and the shadow of Betty looming over her. ‘Ungrateful wretch! Blasphemer! Speak respectfully to your betters. Jenny Bagnall is too kind for her own good, taking you in and feeding you even when she can see you wearing one of her own shifts like some common thief.’

  Florence opened her mouth to speak, hand cradling the stinging cheek.

  ‘Not another word, girl! Be silent and be thankful that you find yourself among decent folk.’ Betty’s eyes were narrowed and bore into Florence’s. Unseen by Jenny, she put her finger to her lips in a timeless but urgent gesture.

  Florence was too shocked to do anything. Was everybody in this forest intent on physical violence?

  Jenny stepped in and crouched over her, pushing the older woman back, ‘Leave the girl be, Betty. There is no cause for such harsh chastisement. The shift is mine to give and I give it to her.’ She turned her voice to Florence whose eyes were stinging with tears. ‘She has the right of it though girl. You have taken some hurt in these woods and no doubt at the hand of a man. We will not ask and you will not tell us, but if you want shelter here, you must act with becoming modesty and know your place. We will have no more nonsense about visiting scents or talk of majors. Nor may you take the name of the Lord in vain. It is unseemly. We want no cause for the militia to seek us out or take note of us. Do you understand me?’

  Florence stared hard, trying to assess whether she was deliberately lying or whether she was so far embedded in this cult that she couldn’t help herself. Betty hovered at her shoulder, rubbing her bruised hand and Florence couldn’t make out the look on the woman’s face. Was it fear?

  ‘I… I’m sorry,’ she managed. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I am confused…’ well that was true. ‘Can you give me a little time to…?’

  ‘Oh aye, take a moment,’ Jenny grinned, ‘and then you can clear the pig-pen — if you want supper,’ and she left her there.

  Florence might have asked Betty a question but the woman had gone.

  And that had been the beginning of Florence’s induction into this strange world. No matter what her eyes told her, she wasn’t about to accept this strange place as anything other than a quirky group living somewhere in her own world. Just because they didn’t give any hint of knowledge of a modern life, didn’t mean that she had to stay with them. She needed to find her own life. But it was deeply confusing; all of the paths she thought she knew, were…missing. She couldn’t find a single sign of the civilisation she knew. She couldn’t even find the Major Oak or her friends. Surely, they ought to be searching for her?

  At every opportunity, Florence went to search for her life in the forest and when she didn’t find it, she had to return to the hamlet for food and shelter. Jenny seemed to accept these short disappearances — so long as the tasks she set Florence were completed. There was simply nothing that Florence recognised or understood. Her bewilderment was complete and she was eventually reminded of the adage that, when you’ve eliminated everything else, what you’re left with must be the truth. Each time she emerged, dejected, from the forest, Betty Hudson watched her with her sharp eyes.

  And throughout all of it, the words of her attacker echoed around her memory — that she was no longer in her own century. The truth of it began to settle in her stomach like a stone. Perhaps the man had not attacked her. Perhaps he was simply trying to protect her. Florence re-thought the encounter. He had let her run when he could have caught her. Why? Did he realise that she wouldn’t believe him? A glimmer of hope shone in this impossible blackness: he had told her that he would try to find her. Nat Haslet. Where was he? Just before she fell asleep that night, she decided that she must, at all costs, return to the Major Oak. It was the beginning of this nightmare; it might provide the solution.

  It was the flies that spurred her on. No more looking for a path out, she would just go and never come back. Somewhere out there, was a way back home. Jenny had a ham hung at the far end of the room and she sent Florence to cut a few thick chunks for her to add to a st
ew. She approached the livid hunk of drying flesh with trepidation, carrying a worn sharp knife and a small wooden platter. The sound emanating from the ham didn’t register at first but as she neared it, she saw the blow-flies clinging to the meat, crawling all over it, and through the dim light she saw their milky lozenges of eggs glued to it. She gagged, as she lifted it from the hook and started to carry it towards the door and the midden heap, taking care to hold it at arm’s length.

  ‘Stop, girl! What are you at?’ Jenny cried as Florence reached the door.

  ‘It’s fly-blown. I’m throwing it…’

  ‘Bring it here.’

  Florence hesitated, wondering if she’d understood.

  ‘Now. To me girl!’ Jenny inspected it quickly. ‘I had not known that there was a glut of good meat in Wales (they’d all decided that her oddness must certainly be Welsh, her voice confirmed it) but here we respect decent food.’ She brushed off the eggs and flies and dug out a couple of areas where the ham looked a little soggy. Chopping up the useable meat, she cubed it and dropped it to the broth. ‘See now: ’tis nothing that a good boiling will not cure, child.’ She set to stirring the pot and sent Florence to scoop up the waste and to re-hang what was left of the ham. The bone would be used to flavour a thick gloopy soup next day and the rest would be devoured by the pig. Florence was chastened and horrified. ‘And Florence, you do as I tell you and not as you see fit. Had you thrown away such dear meat, my husband would have beaten you — justly. Remember that girl or your backside will know the touch of his leather.’

  Florence’s learning curve was very steep. That evening, when Jenny served the excellent stew, she made sure that she ate every spoonful of it but in the morning, she started her investigation about the Major Oak. The tree was old and known in this time. They had to know where it was.