‘Don’t people in your time like looking tanned?’ he was surprised.
‘Yeah, but not by the sun — skin cancer. Big problem. No one used sun factor protection years ago — in your time. Loads of holidays abroad and skin that’s pale and not intended for the Spanish sun. Bad.’
‘Shit.’ He thought of all the times, he’d baked himself on a foreign beach or on the deck of some ship en route somewhere.
‘Well, it’s not a problem for everyone, just those of us with pale skins. You’ll be OK. Looks like you tan easily,’ she laughed, ‘In fact, you look like a walnut!’ she was rewarded with a coy smile. ‘And hot showers!’ she exclaimed, beginning to warm to the game.
That he could endorse fully, ‘Christ yes! A power shower, shampoo, soap, endless hot water.’ They both sighed. ‘Flushing toilets!’ Florence was beginning to detect a theme.
‘And…’
‘Nat, enough! I can’t take it. Makes me sad for all those things that we took for granted.’
‘Just one more thing,’ he grinned, and she prepared herself for something outrageous, ‘curry and chips.’
‘Stop it!’ they fell about laughing until their ribs and faces ached. Tears ran down Florence’s face but after a while she wasn’t sure that they were tears of laughter as antibiotics and the NHS also came to mind, so she closed her eyes and fell asleep. Nat fell asleep tracing the outline of her features.
Their days were long with only Sundays as a day of rest — which they didn’t get paid for. Like the rest of the town, they went to church — somebody would have commented if they hadn’t. Florence was surprised to learn that Nat took these services seriously. They had a choice of several churches and very deliberately tried them all out, settling on one where the minister did not focus quite so heavily on their damnation but on their redemption and where the sermons had an encouraging, more forgiving quality about them which made Nat smile and irritated her less than she’d expected. She did notice that the notably small congregation made for an even smaller collection plate but it didn’t deter the fatherly minister.
They had a very particular reason for being there. Betty’s comment about her watching duties being endorsed by a minister, meant that there was knowledge, among some in the church, of these trees and what they did. It made sense. Here was an organisation which was itself ancient as many of the trees. They would have to know about the portals. However, it seemed unlikely that it was widely known about; such a secret could not have been kept except by a very few. But someone knew, and Florence and Nat had to find one of those people.
They quickly discovered which churches preached fire and brimstone and avoided them. Such ministers there would condemn them as creatures of darkness and were close-minded. Such puritans were as radical and brutal as any Spanish Inquisition. And so, they settled on the church of St Bartholomew’s where the Reverend Gabriel Wiersdale had greeted them at the door with an open smile and an even more hopeful collection plate. His gown was heavily patched and his surplice grubby but he was genuinely happy to see them.
‘Welcome, friends, welcome. We are a small congregation but a God-fearing one. Welcome I say,’ and he ushered them in to his church. It took a few moments for their eyesight to adapt and for them to see how run-down it was. There were few candles to light the gloom and the congregation was sparsely spread throughout the nave but Florence and Nat moved forwards, following the Reverend and noticing how he smiled at those he passed and received greetings in return. He ushered them to the front like a farmer with prize sheep.
The service itself was little changed from that which Nat knew his own father to deliver and it gave him comfort. No organ here. Too poor. The Reverend Wiersdale’s theme was forgiveness and his sermon, the Good Samaritan which was well received by his loyal congregation, no more so for it not being overly long. When they emerged back into the weak sunlight, Nat seemed refreshed. There were a few minutes of quiet between them as they always waited until they were out of earshot before they spoke.
‘So, what do you think? We’ll go back and ask a few questions?’ Nat suggested.
‘I think so. He didn’t sound like the sort that would run screaming witchcraft.’
‘Don’t let his smile fool you,’ Nat was remembering another Timothy Kirk who’d done exactly that. ‘But, no. I agree. He seemed sound to me.’ They would find a way of seeing if the Reverend knew anything about these watchers. They strolled together in the weak sunshine enjoying their leisure.
‘You believe in this stuff don’t you!’ she accused when they were far enough away.
‘Used to — maybe still do — long time ago. It’s … comforting — familiar, you know?’
‘Don’t believe it now though?’
‘Christ no!’ he laughed a little too loudly. ‘A God that throws people through time worm holes! Don’t think so.’
‘Yeah.’ She agreed. ‘Bastard.’
The soldiers didn’t attend any of the services but had their own preachers admonishing them in the open air, for all to hear. Their services focused on ‘the beast’, the devil of Roman Catholicism, and the debauchery of popish practices. Coming a close second to this topic were women — who were called out as temptresses, susceptible to Satan’s temptations. Nat thought that there was some merit in warning marauding soldiers away from the local girls; nothing good could come of it in terms of PR. Florence thought that the misogyny was appallingly familiar.
The religious tensions in the town were no doubt the cause of their poor minister’s pallor. Some of the townspeople had more of a taste for the verbal pyrotechnics of those preachers who prophesied hell around every corner. Florence thought that she recognised their brand of fundamentalism as well.
After the evening service, Florence and Nat hung back in the church, stepping into the shadow of the aisle, close to the vestry. The Reverend Wiersdale was startled when they approached him from the gloom. He composed himself but looked a little warily at these two new members of his congregation.
‘Ah. I see you now. Well, friends,’ the word seem to sit uncomfortably with him, ‘is there something…?’
‘May we speak with you, Reverend?’ Florence asked. Hoping that her voice might be less threatening.
‘Concerning . . . ?’
‘It is a private matter, sir. Perhaps we might step in to the vestry?’
The Reverend looked nervous, ‘I . . . um . . . I am awaited by . . .’
Nat spoke carefully, ‘We mean you no harm Reverend. We are simple travellers who will soon be gone from this place but we wish to ask you a question — about the watchers,’ they looked for his reaction and were not disappointed. The Reverend Giles Wiersdale paled and his eyes glittered as he scrutinised them carefully.
‘I should have known. Two new members of my flock was too good a gift. I am rewarded for my greed,’ he sighed with resignation. ‘Come.’ And they followed him into the vestry where he locked the door behind them. ‘Sit.’ What do you wish to know? And how much will you pay me for it?’ Florence jangled a few coins. It was all they had but it would be worth it for good information. ‘What do you know already?’
‘We know that there are ministers of the church, who watch and wait for certain . . . travellers — in order to aid them. They observe the ancient trees…’
He snorted contemptuously, ‘Pagan, un-godly superstition and idolatry! The church must stamp out such devilry.’
Florence reassured him, ‘We are both good Christians, Reverend, of this you may be assured.’ It wouldn’t help her case to declare herself an atheist. ‘We ask for nothing but information and then we will be gone.’
Nat saw the man relax a little and the coins clearly tempted him, ‘I know very little,’ he pouted.
‘Any small bite of information would be gratefully received, Reverend.’ She removed a couple of coins from the purse.
The Reverend was incentivised to help, ‘It is naught but rumour and the ramblings of an infirm mind, I fear,’ he held out h
is hand and she placed two coins there. ‘Very well. You shall know what I know and then you get you gone.’ He directed this at Nat who had so far been silent. It irritated Florence. ‘I have been the incumbent here for many years but before I, the minister here oversaw the burning for witchcraft of a young girl and he wrote of it in the church annals.’ They listened, unsure whether this was going to be useful. ‘He wrote . . . nay, ‘tis madness for sure,’ he shook his head. ‘He wrote of being visited by demons after the burning, who said that they were watchers of the ancient trees in the churchyard and that he had done a wicked thing by accusing her so and bringing her to trial.’ The Reverend Wiersdale snorted with contempt but stopped when he saw the faces of his visitors who were not at all dismissive of what he’d said. ‘My predecessor wrote that these watchers tempted him, asking him to join them and to watch for such people as this girl had been. He knew then for sure that they were creatures of the dark.’ The minister shivered.
‘What else did he write? Can we see his writing?’ Nat asked.
‘No.’
Nat’s tensed body shifted towards the minister a little, ‘I have said that we will pay . . . ’ he menaced.
Stepping back a little, the Reverend Wiersdale saw that he had made a mistake; not everything was worth coin. ‘You mistake me fellow. You cannot see his writings because I burned them.’ He boasted. ‘I destroyed his records when it became clear that these Anabaptists and Ranters were men of violence to any who fell under their pall of suspicion. I would not risk these writings of a diseased mind being come upon by such as they — found in my possession, in my church. Have you not heard what they preach to their congregations and seen how quick they are to accuse? Why, half my congregation left me for the very fear that they would be called out if they were seen to stay. There is a plague of witchcraft! These are dangerous times and I can help you no further. Keep your damned money and go.’ He unlocked the door and stood at it, waiting for them to leave.
‘Reverend,’ Florence was conciliatory, ‘we understand your fears but all we require is information as to where or how we might find these watchers. They may be able to help us on our journey. We are no demons. Look,’ she had a moment’s inspiration, ‘we can hold the Holy Book without any ill effects.’ She’d placed Bibles in hers and Nat’s hands. ‘Is there nothing that you can tell us of how we might find them?’ she gave him her most sincere smile.
He was not convinced, ‘I know not what you are. The Devil is the arch deceiver. For sure, your tongue is most strange. How can a man tell in times such as these?’ he sighed and then taking pity on the crestfallen woman before him added, ‘One thing he wrote: he thought that these watchers must hail from Oxford. They spoke with an educated voice, he noted.’
‘Did they return? Did they persuade him to their cause?’ Florence was insistent.
‘I think not — or if they did, it was to ill effect. The Reverend Cope was found, within the week, hanged from the ancient yew in the churchyard. It was thought that his failure to protect his flock from devilry, drove him to despair. A mortal sin, for sure. He is buried…elsewhere.’ The Reverend trembled.
‘Ancient yew?’ Nat was curious. ‘I saw no trees…’
‘Do you think me a fool! I had the trees cut and burned during my first week in tenure. No accuser will hang me in my own churchyard.’
Suddenly, the kindly minister had gone and a man riddled with the fears and superstitions of his age stood before them. They would get no further help here. They turned to go.
‘You said payment?’ he whimpered regretting his earlier nobility. Nat tossed him the two pennies that he’d made sweaty in his hand, with anticipation and hope. The fell to the floor where the minister gathered them up.
12
Down By The Riverside
Oxford held their hopes but, given the season and the times, they had to stay for a little while so that they could scrape together enough supplies to get them there. They had experienced the travails of life on the open road and were not keen to do it again without some small comforts — or food. Actually, Nat enjoyed his carpentry; Florence endured the laundry. He wondered if perhaps one day, someone might admire his work in the church or even wonder about the man who’d done it. It gave him some pride. Florence wondered why she’d never appreciated her smart washing-machine and self-cleaning fabrics. Why the hell hadn’t she learned carpentry or masonry? Wouldn’t have helped here; they wouldn’t have employed her anyway. All of it renewed their burning desire to go home and to find those who might help them do that. They cut their food down to the minimum and stored whatever they could in the hay loft, out of the reach of rats. Nat carried their money with him; it never left his belt.
In the few days that remained to them in Burton upon Trent, Nat was fascinated by the garrison. The lack of alarm amongst the locals told him that there was little concern about the soldiers’ presence. Small groups of them wandered through the town and they were good for business. It seemed that these soldiers had received their pay. Nat also thought that they’d been warned off harassing the women of the town for, although these young men leered at the girls, they kept their distance. He thought again of his own young marines and the warnings that he’d issued over the years. The difference here was the lack of infrastructure for these troops; they were dependent on the town for their provisions and their entertainment. Certainly, the taverns were always full but some officer had posted rotas of men to patrol the town and to oik away those who were insensible with drink before they became unruly. Seemed familiar as well. Perhaps the war was far away and this group were resting on their way to somewhere. Something nagged at the back of his mind. Something about this area that he knew he should have remembered.
The battle fought at Naseby, which would all but destroy the King’s forces, was eighteen months — and only sixty miles - away.
As he worked, he saw signs in the church which he began to put together, confirming what he’d thought. The centre of the explosion was the crypt. Some hidden cache of gunpowder had been stored there and when it went up, it had almost destroyed the choir of the church. The foreman saw him putting it all together, ‘Best not to join the pieces, lad. His lordship’d not be pleased that word was out that it was in ‘ere. He’s yet to decide whether it’s King or Parliament he favours. Idiot bastard blows with the wind. Seems a curate was . . . curious and took a lighted candle down there. We found bits of him scattered all over. Meanwhile, remember lad: there was no gunpowder here.’ The foreman tapped the side of his nose. Nat understood. Treason was cruelly punished.
The following Sunday, before their departure, Florence and Nat sat by the Trent eating the food that Nat had bought from the market the day before, as a sort of picnic. They wanted to be away from the townsfolk, have a day off from being stared at for their strange speech and not have to watch what they said or did for fear of being noticed. Different was bad; these people liked what they knew. Despite the cold, they hoped for a chance to bathe without being decried for that too. Their fastidiousness shocked people who knew that water was a sure way to let evil vapours and chills in!
Florence shook her head in frustration. A difficult process, she thought, as she tried to wash herself with most of her clothes on. Nat, of course, was free to take off his shirt which he sluiced in the river, washing it as he bathed. She tried not to linger on his shining torso, pale beyond the neck line but etched with the muscles which he honed each day. People here would have been shocked at their dangerous fastidiousness; everyone knew that water was a sure way to let evil vapours in! Drying on the bank of the Trent, upstream and out of the path of the effluent and the brewery waste, Nat lay basking in the weak winter sun, his shirt drying on a nearby bush while Florence stood, wafting her skirts in the chill breeze, horribly soggy and not hopeful of drying out that day.
‘Look, what do you think about trying again? Go back through another oak? Go home . . . ’ he sighed wistfully. We could see if any of the trees en route to Oxford a
re portals. We might get lucky. I’ve been thinking, Florrie, what if we couldn’t use the trees that brought us here because it’s a once only thing and we should use a tree that’s not done it before?’ It was a reasonable idea and she said so.
‘Well, I remember some of them. We could try but I’ve been thinking too, Nat. There’s a danger, you know. We’re making an assumption that a tree will take us home. What if it just takes us further into the past — some other time where it would be even harder to survive? God, this place is tough enough. And there’s something else that we should think about: what if, in the future, the tree’s… gone. Dead? Chopped down? What would happen to us if the tree did take us back? And how could we possibly know? We could only try trees which I knew existed in the future. What if that tree has…gone in the time I’ve been here? You say that you came through in 86?’
‘Yeah. December – Christmas.’
‘Then you don’t know about the hurricane in October ‘87? Fifteen million trees were lost in that one night.’ She saw the genuine shock on his face. ‘Not all of them were ancient — but some were.’
Nat’s face registered surprise. ‘Didn’t think that we got hurricanes. So if we went through here . . . and the tree was gone in 1987 . . .?’
‘Quite. I don’t know all of them.’
Nat was impressed.
‘Real problem. At least we’ve got our own expert on trees,’ he grinned at her.
She spun around, skirts spinning out water droplets, and grinned triumphantly, ‘D’you know what, Nat Haslet? Seems like my tree skills are going to be more than useful after all!’
‘Yeah,’ he raised himself on his elbow so that he faced her. Perhaps they had found a chink of hope, ‘Happy New Year, by the way. 1644.’
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 13