Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles

by Jayne Hackett

  No trace of the young man was ever found and the mystery of that night niggled him for the rest of his career. As for the visit to the Marlborough Manse, well, that also stayed with Timpson for the rest of his life.

  8

  A Stolen Life

  ‘And then I had a bit of luck. I came upon another small village – Aldbourne. You know, it was amazing how little the church had changed. I reckon that even now I could tell you the village from the church in that area, ‘cos Dad,’ he paused to swallow, ‘went to all of the local parishes and he generally dragged us with him. At the time, I hated it but at that moment, I was really grateful. Anyway, seems that they were repairing the tower and extending the transept. You know how obsessed people are here with building churches.’ Florence had moved closer to him and was nestled next to him in the firelight.

  ‘I hovered in the shadow of a yew tree and watched. This church had had a spire and generous transepts in my time - I knew it had but right now, they were building them and workmen were all around like flies. I was fascinated, beginning to believe the evidence of my own eyes because here was the most solid proof that I could have imagined. As I watched them, I thought of what I was going to do. My first idea was to get back to that oak and see if I could reverse whatever this process was but the thought of cramming myself back in to that tiny space… well. I wasn’t quite ready for it. In any case, I needed some tools to help open up the trunk properly, and here they were all around me. So, I did a very bad thing and I stole a box of tools.’

  ‘But you had to,’ Florence suggested. ‘You needed them.’

  ‘Yeah, but later I thought about what that meant: I had taken the tools that belonged to another man and they were his work, his life, what probably kept his family alive. Without them, he’d literally have to beg, steal or borrow until he could afford to have some more made. Felt bad about that ever since.’ There was genuine regret in his voice.

  ‘I couldn’t run with a box so I dumped it and took my coat off and wrapped them in it. Easier to carry. On the yew tree, I found some garments hanging — didn’t know what you’d call them but I took the heavy jerkin thing so that I could hide the shreds of the T-shirt and the blood.’

  Florence asked when he’d learned to use the tools. She’d long wished she’d had practical skills that would be of use here.

  ‘Actually, it was my dad’s hobby — woodworking. He loved it. Used to joke about Jesus and him both being carpenters. Never funny.’ The memory was strong and made him smile, ‘Had his own workbench in the garage and I spent a lot of my childhood in there pottering about with him. There was never enough money to pay for the repairs in the parish funds, so he started to do them himself. He’d seen pretty early on that I didn’t have his calling in the faith and thought that if I had a skill, at least I’d never be out of work. To be honest, he found the Marines thing… difficult, couldn’t really reconcile the armed forces and killing with his beliefs but he got over it and we still spent time making stuff in the garage even when I came home on leave. It bridged what couldn’t be said between us. Mum even persuaded him to be there for my passing out parade. You’d be surprised how many carved pew-ends we repaired in that garage! If only he’d known.’ It made Nat grin. He bet that his father would laugh his head off when he got home to tell the tale. And that thought wiped the smile off his face.

  He’d found a road — straight, paved, Roman surely? – and trudged north along it. He made sure that he kept to the hedges when anyone was in sight. He was nervous now about people’s reaction to him, still processing the preposterous place he was now in. The T-shirt would do him no favours, he thought, and at some point, he found a godsend: some good wife had hung the family’s washing to dry on the low shrubs so he grabbed everything that he thought would fit and ran off again. Now he truly was a thief, dressed in stolen clothes and carrying stolen tools and he needed to find some work so that he could eat and find shelter but first, he destroyed the damning T-shirt! Actually, ripped it to pieces and buried it so that no part of it could be linked to him. Now he looked the part. His clothes were authentic and he had a set of woodworking tools, tools that he really liked. They were honed to the user’s hand and the blades were sharp and clean. Someone had cared very much about these and Nat felt increasingly guilty about having stolen them. Truth was that with them, he could eke out a living — the rest he’d work out as he went along.

  Of course, there was still the problem of his version of English which had already drawn one or two probing looks. To the people here, he spoke a strange English – that of a foreigner. Nat had a good ear for accents but he didn’t have the vocabulary or syntax needed, so he decided to create an accent and then speak as little as he could. He’d been roomed with a Tyke for over a year and felt confident that he could manage sounding as thought he was a Yorkshireman. Using as many colloquialisms as he could think of and adding a heavy sprinkling of grunts and affirmatives, he hoped that it would work. He made himself as impenetrable as he could manage and by referencing Tadcaster, Ripon and York, it seemed to work. The locals shook their heads and muttered, ‘Yorkshire man.’ Then they’d all nod as if that said it all.

  ‘Ay up then lads!’ he attracted their attention with a shout, given that they were rather high on the scaffolding. They paused and looked down towards him saying nothing until they saw the bag of tools on his back.

  ‘Looking for work are ye?’

  ‘I am that.’

  ‘Where’s you been before then?’ Always the same: strangers had to provide a provenance.

  ‘On’t way down from York. Fighting’s getting a bit warm there for the likes of me.’ Was he too heavy with the accent? The foreman didn’t seem to notice but Nat thought that it was too thick.

  ‘Aye. True enough. We keeps our heads low when they’re passing up by the great north road.’ He was waved in and the foreman slid down the ladder. He leaned closer to Nat and cautioned him, ‘Aye, we’ve work here but, fellow, a word: if you’ve a leaning to the King or to Parliament, keep it to yourself if you want to be kept on,’ he spoke quietly into Nat’s ear. ‘We just build a church. We earn an honest wage and we leave meddling to others what enjoys it.’ It was like that a lot, Nat realised. The factions that supported each side were driven by politics and local power but the ordinary people of the land, they just wanted it to be over; they didn’t know that it was a civil war which would change the path of the country. It was true that they’d been taught to fear Roman Catholicism as superstitious and blasphemous but they’d no great joy in the Roundheads’ dour theology. A King who thought himself divine was just as bad as those who’d discovered that only they spoke the pure word of God. No. Most people just tried to keep out of it where they could. The nobility, the landowners, the clergy and the politicians were wedded to their causes and they dragged the people in to stand on one side or another in front of them — and be killed. Ambitious men raised armies and pledged their troth and God was always on their side. They needed men to fight for that cause and to refuse was to be cast out without recompense. What was a man to do but to fight whichever way his master told him to? Poor England! Such a small land with armies now snaked through it like veins through a body. Inevitably, the flesh bled.

  Nat was encouraged by his easy acceptance. They needed workers then and he’d heard the advice, ‘Ay, I shall do that, but I’ve little tendency towards either, just to earn my shilling is right for me.’

  The foreman nodded, pointing him towards the master carpenter a short, dark man who lowered himself from the scaffold on a rope and wiping his hands on his apron, approached Nat. ‘Chippy, is it?’ Nat nodded. ‘Show me your plane.’ Nat lowered his stolen bag of tools onto the grass and found the plane. Its wood was smooth with usage and oily sweat and the metal clip holding the blade was well greased but firm. The foreman turned it over in his hand and ran his thumb carefully across the blade, pulling it back quickly when it drew blood. He grinned. ‘Always tell the fitness of a man’s work
by the state of the tools he owns! Never fails.’ He was pleased that his self-styled rule of thumb had actually proved true. ‘Pay’s a shilling a day if the work holds true. You’ll take word from me — and keep the cursing low for ‘tis a house of God we build.’ He didn’t ask if the terms were agreed, just wandered back around to the porch entrance, sucking his thumb.

  Nat became used to the swaying wooden scaffolds and did his duty on the windlass, taking his turn on walking inside the human hamster wheel which lifted the heavy stone blocks and beams high into the church. He settled into working from dawn to dusk and collecting his shilling from the foreman on the Saturday, investing most of it in food and lodging in local digs run by formidable landladies who were often war widows and sometimes abandoned by men who’d thought battle the more exciting option. Nat admired their enterprise in taking in lodgers, but then such women had families to support and there was nothing for them except for the charity of the church or the parish and that was little enough given the number of them. So, they housed and fed a couple of workmen, providing shelter and plain food and receiving a pittance that would feed them and theirs. Sometimes, they provided other comforts and often, were rewarded when a lodger became their new husband and provider. The welfare state of 1643.

  ‘Which church was it?’ Florence interrupted.

  ‘St Michael’s Aldbourne. Why?’

  ‘Because somewhere in the future, in that building, is work that you did which has stood for nearly four hundred years. Who gets the chance to leave that sort of legacy and know about it? You said that your father knew the church — worked in it?’

  ‘Yeah, sometimes preached there . . . Christ!’ He was awed by it. ‘He’ll be preaching in a church that his son helped to build! Hope he likes the fancy carving on the pinions!’ They were both pleased by these thoughts. Until now, time-travel had provided them with nothing but misery.

  ‘So, how long — before you tried again?’

  ‘Three months or so.’ He saw her surprise.

  ‘Took me time to think. Couldn’t go back to Savernake or Marlborough. Thought that they might have had mobs still looking for me — the stolen tools. Didn’t know who’d be looking for those or me.’ Florence saw the problem and nodded sympathetically. ‘And then there was the question of the tree. Was it just that tree or would any tree with a hollow work? I didn’t know of any great trees. I hadn’t even heard of the Savernake one until I bloody well crashed into it! I started asking around about ancient trees in the forest but it got me odd looks and I stopped before it got weird.’

  Florence knew exactly why that was.

  ‘But then, I thought that there is one tree that lots of kids know: The Major Oak! Big Robin Hood fan when I was little! Sherwood Forest, the outlaws, sheriff of Nottingham, Maid…’ he started to sing the theme tune but caught her expression. ‘Yeah, well, bow and arrows and all that — and the oak that was Robin’s larder – every kid knew that!’ He knew that she was laughing at him but it was a fond memory.

  A tender smile escaped her at the thought of him being a boy with a bow and arrow, wearing a Robin Hood hat that they sold in the tourist shop.

  ‘Knew where that was! Knew it was a great oak — even today — so I set off to find it. Wasn’t hard to find work along the way either. Got to Nottingham then north to Sherwood and that’s where I … met you.’

  ‘Knocked me out you mean!’

  ‘I was trying to save your life!’ He tried hard to look wounded but they were laughing together.

  ‘Yeah. Right. So, what about the men, chasing you!’ she waited for an answer.

  ‘Ah. Well, they weren’t actually chasing me.’ An admission. A raised eye brow.

  ‘I’d seen them earlier that day — small hunting party — probably from Bestwood Lodge but I’d have been for it if they’d caught me snaring game in their park and then, when I saw you lying next to the oak… well it was a shock of course – in a good way - I knew what you were and the way you were dressed, well, they really would have tried you for a witch!’

  ‘I don’t remember anything after getting into the damn thing. Tell me.’

  ‘Well, you were about five yards away from the trunk and lying on your back. My guess is that you were totally dazed when you got out. It’s a powerful thing that happens. You probably passed out from the… whatever it is! Anyway, it was obvious to me who — what you were, so I dragged you a bit further into the undergrowth so that we’d have a bit of cover, and that was when you came to.’

  ‘Thank you, for all of it,’ and she unexpectedly touched his lips with hers. He took her face in his calloused hands and replied with a long, strong kiss that told her how glad he was that they’d found one another. Florence looked into his face and spoke tenderly, with him completely at her mercy, ‘And of course, as well as rescuing me from that fate, there was always the chance that I might hold the key to getting home,’ she’d drawn him in and he blushed.

  ‘Ah. There was that as well,’ he confessed, ‘but mostly it was the saving your life thing.’

  ‘Thank you anyway. Glad I’m with you.’

  They woke with their breath clouding into the early morning air. She found that he’d rolled towards her in the night when the damp and the cold and his lack of a blanket had been too much. She didn’t mind and the shared warmth was welcome. Packing up their sparse possessions, they withdrew separately into the hedgerow to complete morning necessities. Florence had become adept at hoisting the heavy skirts so that she could relieve herself. She’d gathered the moss and launched her bottom into the air feeling exposed and very cold, when she felt the tip of a sharp metal implement pressed to her buttock. All natural functions ceased as she froze and a voice behind her hissed, ‘A full moon on a cold morning! Warms my vitals, does that!’ He jabbed the blade a little harder and continued. ‘You must needs be silent, wench. We’d not want yon fellow rushing over — yet. Just keep proper still and make not a sound. You hear me, girl?’

  Florence could do nothing. She tried to re-clothe herself but the blade stabbed her a little more. Degraded and cold and angry with herself, she was shaking. All she could hear was the sound of someone trying to fumble with his clothes. She knew what he was trying to do and it was one-handed. Straining her ears, she listened anxiously for any sign that Nat had been alerted to the danger, but he was too far away and in any case, he’d thought that he was giving her privacy. Her assailant swiftly moved the knife to the back of her neck as he grabbed her around the waist and she was aware of his clammy flesh touching her. She felt him start to thrust towards her and frantically looked around for anything which she might grab to hit him with, but the knife was insistent. She tensed, prepared for the violation. Nothing. The knife fell away from her neck and a heavy thud sounded behind her. Then, a hand grabbed the fabric of her skirts and lowered them carefully. Florence turned and saw Nat’s ashen face, holding a bloody knife. She started to shake and he stepped into her, wrapping her in his arms and burying her head into his shoulder. He felt very solid and warm and she could feel the tension in his muscles as he held her tight.

  On the floor lay the body of a young man — no more than nineteen or twenty. He was emaciated and dressed in rags. They had stepped back just a little from one another and Florence’s focus returned to the carpenter’s knife clutched in his hand, blood dripping down his wrist. His knuckles were white. She didn’t move any further away as his gaze met hers.

  ‘Saw him through the trees, just as you went in to the hedgerow. Saw the blade in his hand. Sorry it took so long to get round to you but I had to make sure that he didn’t hear me so I took the long route.’ And then, gently, ‘All right Florence? Did he . . . ?’

  ‘No. He would have but you . . . stopped him.’ Nat Haslet was making a habit of rescuing her, it seemed.

  Florence didn’t know what to say. She lay her hand on his bloodied one and managed, ‘I’m fine.’ She sat heavily, Nat beside her, both silent. He dropped to his knees and moved towards the b
ody, searching him. Florence didn’t think that she could have touched him.

  He checked the waistband to see if there was another weapon there and then he ripped open his shirt, the rotted fabric tearing easily and Nat sighed. ‘Deserter. Look.’ He moved aside for her to see but she had no inclination to move nearer. On the young man’s shoulder was a raw very angry wound, seeping with pus. Florence looked uncomprehendingly at Nat. ‘Musket ball I’m guessing. Still in there. Septic. Stinks.’

  Florence had the sense to turn aside as she vomited.

  He waited for her to recover. He’d seen that reaction before and was pragmatic, ‘Plenty of deserters around, young lads who thought that a soldier’s life would free them from tedium but discovered what war actually means. If they’re lucky, someone chops off a limb before it rots and kills them — some of them survive — but I’m guessing that this lad ran before someone could dig out the musket ball. Probably wouldn’t have survived even then. Poor little sod.’ The blood pouring from his kidney had stopped with his last breath and Nat closed the boy’s eyes for him. ‘Sorry that this happened. He was probably fevered. Didn’t know what he was doing — if that’s any comfort.’ There was a pause and Nat was considerate. He would give her time to recover from the shock of this.

  ‘Crap!’

  He frowned in puzzlement.

  ‘He knew exactly what he was doing! Knew enough to hold me at knife point while he freed his dick!’

  Nat liked the way in which she said it like it was. Even with a slight thread of vomit clinging to her chin, Florence was fiery, her green eyes flashing with her indignation. She was no damsel in distress. That was certainly an advantage given where and when they were.