She sank to the ground beside him, leaned over and brushed his lips with hers, smiling as she saw that his eyes had closed. The softness of his lips was . . . encouraging and she closed her own eyes as Nat pulled her in and kissed her deeply.
‘Happy New Year, Nat,’ she breathed, forgetting the cold as she felt the heat of his body. She felt the stubble of his beard on her neck as his lips moved downwards finding her collar bone and she pressed herself into him and wound her fingers into his thick hair. His hand caressed her breast and she heard his breathing strengthen. Florence moaned with pleasure as gooseflesh stippled her body. ‘Nat . . . ’ she could barely speak. ‘Nat,’ she was more insistent. ‘Wait.’ It took strength of will for her to create a small space between them but Nat paused.
‘We won’t be seen. Don’t worry. After all, we’re husband and wife ’ . . . and he renewed his exploration of her neck.
‘It’s not that . . .’ she struggled not to give in to her physical response. ‘We have to be . . .’ her nipple was arguing with her.
He froze. ‘Oh God! Oh, yeah. I get it. Pregnant! I’m sorry. Should have thought.’
‘What? Oh . . .’ it hadn’t crossed her mind. Her implant should still be working and if it wasn’t . . . well, there was still no sign of a period. ‘No. It’s not that Nat.’ This bloody man was going to extract a confession from her. ‘Look. Clearly, I’m attracted to you,’ he could be infuriating when he grinned like that, ‘and this . . . is . . . very nice,’ could his smug grin get any wider, she wondered. ‘But we’ve been thrown together by the time thing. I want to be sure . . . not just . . . available.’ It wasn’t the right word.
‘Available.’
‘I really like you,’ she confessed. ‘I want to be sure that this won’t cause . . . complications.’
‘Complications.’
‘Will you stop echoing me! You know what I mean. It ties us doesn’t it.’
‘I . . . er . . . I thought that you did want . . . this. Got that wrong, did I?’
She didn’t reply. She was starting to feel the chill.
Nat took his time before saying anything else. Just enough time for Florence to begin to regret her words. He released her and looked into her eyes. ‘OK. I get it. You want to know whether this is just . . . lust yeah?’ The word made her smile, but he had a habit of making a point clearly.
‘Well, yes,’ she admitted.
‘Florence Brock, I like you too,’ he spoke tenderly and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingertips. ‘And just in case you’re wondering, I would like you — in any time,’ he said, as he kissed her softly. ‘As much as I’d like this to develop, here and now, what say that we do something old-fashioned and go slowly? Get to know one another, eh? We have all the time in the world,’ he laughed and she laughed with him, relieved that he understood — and a little disappointed.
‘I like old-fashioned.’ A yawn escaped her as she relaxed against him and he cradled her in his arms, so that she couldn’t see the look of frustration he threw to the gods, ‘Sorry,’ she apologised, ‘I’m just so bloody tired — and my arms are killing me.’ She scratched urgently.
‘Let me see.’ She pulled up her sleeve and he saw the raw skin where the lye soap had done its damage. ‘Wait a minute.’ He shot up towards a Hawthorne hedge and brought back a handful of snagged sheep wool. ‘Rub it on. It’s the lanolin. It’ll help.’ He watched the relief on her face as the oils sank in and he massaged her arms. His voice was a little hoarse, ‘Um . . . unless there’s anything else you need massaging . . . It’s time for us to be on our way, don’t you think? Let’s find some place where we can stay for a while. A farm or a great house with land where we can work before we reach Oxford. What do you say, Florence?’ he looked at her raw skin and was horrified when she started to cry.
It was never the hard words that did it but always the tender or kind ones. She gave in to her misery for a couple of minutes, sobbing so hard that Nat dare not let her go but let her wipe her nose on his sleeve.
This was self-indulgence. She knew that. She was braver than this — stronger. ‘To Oxford,’ she stated. ‘And beyond!’
Nat had no idea what was making her laugh.
In the mild February of 1644, they gave notice at the inn and the church, collected their pay and set off, a little better supplied and shod. Nat had his boots mended and Florence bought some sturdy clogs and a change of clothing, including a warm rough-spun cloak which smelled of wet dog. Florence had to re-examine her opinion of the landlady when, as she left, the woman handed her a small sack of provisions, wished her well — and spat for luck. The itinerant tradesmen at the church didn’t offer Nat so much as a wave.
What started out as an energetic hike, slowed in the face of the fierce wind. If the temperature was mild, the wind was brutal and they fought their way into it with hoods drawn over their faces. Those that they passed on the way were equally exhausted by it. Most ignored them but one or two sat down and ate with them, sharing their supplies and stories.
One asked whether they were set for London and was visibly relieved when they said no. He told them that he’d met folk who’d said that the Black Plague had risen again and the gentry were moving out to their country lands. Even the King, he said, had moved his court to Oxford. Florence and Nat were alarmed and wished that they could remember more about Oxford’s role in the war. They thanked the man for his warnings and set out the next morning a little less briskly. ‘I don’t think that we can avoid it, Florrie. We know about the plague in London. If Charles is there, maybe Oxford escapes it. It’s our best clue so far. We have to go.’
‘What can you remember about this war?’ she asked him, prompted by the revelation of the King at Oxford.
‘Not a lot. Did a bit of military history at Sandhurst but…You?’
‘Only school stuff. Charles I’s execution of course — and Cromwell’s warts,’ she found herself giggling and then, ‘The plague though. Doesn’t that all come to an end with the Great Fire? 1666? So, it’s started already.’
‘Never really went away in London. Yeah. Let’s keep north of it, eh?’
Rain drenched them during the day so that even the evening fire didn’t dry them out completely. And the mud sapped their muscle strength as they walked.
Nights were spent camping in woodland, and while it provided good cover, they were reluctant to wander too far in, still nervous of the brooding presence of large trees. They scouted for any suitable large trees which might hold them both. Neither felt inclined to take that journey alone. Occasionally, they would find oaks which were very old and Nat would chisel away at any aperture in the trunk and see if he could make it large enough to climb in but there were complications.
‘Thing is, Nat,’ she liked to say his name, ‘if we both get in together — if the space was big enough – and if the process did happen, how do we know whose time we’ll go back to! In yours, I’m not born and in mine, well, you’re an old man. How would that work?’
The ‘old man’ stung him a little, ‘I think that you’re making the assumption that we’ll go back to either time! We don’t know that there’s a return ticket. We might end up in the Jurassic or we might hurtle into the future.’
She’d thought that through. ‘Mm. I don’t think so. We didn’t suddenly become 350 years old when we came here. Even though we came from different times, we’re still the age that we are. Does that make sense?’
It did.
‘I think that it’s linked to the life of that tree. They can live for a very long time but we’re talking about centuries — a few millennia in exceptional cases - except for Yews, of course - but it’s oaks that we’re interested in, right?’
He nodded but was less sure now.
Florence continued, ‘So I suppose the question is: are we willing to take those chances?’
‘It’s all moot anyway isn’t it. We don’t seem to be able to make it work in any tree!’
‘No. We don’t. There has
to be another factor. Something that we’re missing,’ he agreed and they both agreed that they had no idea what it was. Finding the watchers was increasingly looking like their only chance.
After that conversation, the journey became increasingly depressing. They’d been on the road for six days without finding any more work and supplies were low, with spirits even lower.
‘I’m hungry.’
‘I know. Shut-up about it. We both are.’
‘I’m really hungry.’
Nothing.
‘I feel sick. I need something to eat other than mushrooms.’
Nat threw down his tool bag and Florence halted and turned very slowly to face him.
‘Listen,’ she hissed at him, ‘your trapping skills are very hit and miss so enough of the whingeing! We’re both bloody hungry but short of eating grass and twigs, the only way we’ll get anything to eat is to find some WORK! And no one wants to employ a moaner. So SHUDDUP!’ She was exhausted and too hungry to be reminded about food.
Nat was mired in his misery and felt that he had the right to complain. He’d kept them going for a long time so he didn’t budge but yelled back at her. ‘Yeah. It’s OK for you isn’t it. You don’t have to put in back-breaking hours for pennies! All you have to do is sweep a couple of yards or do a bit of laundry and . . . ’
‘ALL I have to do!’ she yelled, running back at him like a charging bull. ‘Sounds easy to you does it! Laundry?’ She was shouting in his face now and he was already beginning to regret his tantrum. ‘Look at my hands and arms! Look at the soreness and where the skin’s flaking off! Tell you what, though: I can match you for biceps! You just try lugging arms full of sodding ‘laundry’ from tub to tub, never letting it touch the ground, because if it does, you have to start again,’ Yep. That had happened. ‘Try lifting the heavy linens! NO! Try the woollens!’ she produced a feral growl, ‘They weigh nearly as much as the bastard sheep!’ Florence’s frustrations were about to be let loose. ‘And don’t you DARE talk to me about backs! Leaning, twisting, lifting, hunched over, stretching . . . You haven’t got a clue!’ she snarled, her face contorting into purple contempt for her travelling companion.
He knew when he was beaten and this was really about the laundry.
‘So, don"t you ever talk to me about how hard your days are. Try being a bloody woman!’ That thought made her wonder again just why her period had not arrived. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned. Of course, after their conversation about going slowly, sex had not happened. There’d been kissing and a bit of groping but something held both of them back. Both were frustrated by it — that and the cold.
He didn’t even try to hold her glare. He knew. Knew that when his long labouring day was ended, it was the women who served the food, who did every domestic task. It was the women who worked double shifts.
‘Yeah. Well. Just saying . . . I could do with a meal . . . expect you could too,’ he offered apologetically.
‘Eat some hazelnuts with your mushrooms,’ she snarled and carried on walking.
It didn’t last for long. It was just the tiredness and the hunger that did it but Nat had the knack of seeing the funny side of even this dilemma. He was very good at making her laugh — even when she didn’t want to. ‘On the bright side,’ he grinned, ‘the constipation’s no longer a problem.’ She burst out laughing and they walked together again.
Things picked up and Nat occasionally found a day’s work in a village and they got lodgings and a hot meal. It seemed that someone always needed a carpenter. Florence worked wherever Nat was based. Sometimes it was as an additional dairy maid and at other times, she washed pots and served in the inn — but mostly it was laundry. They were itinerants and treated as such, not trusted and not much liked. So, they gave her the jobs they didn’t like doing. The mistrust of strangers was strong, neighbours barely trusting one another. Nat and Florence’s strange accents marked them as foreigners, many of whom had travelled as mercenaries in this erratic conflict and so they were suspect wherever they went. Actually, this suited Florence and Nat, who kept to themselves to avoid as much contact as possible. The hardship that had occasionally caused a simmering resentment, blaming one another for their discomfort, now cooled and they found warmth at the end of the day in the familiarity of being together. They’d become a team.
13
Last Gasp
Nat saw it was a body, the moment they came around the bend. It was lying in the centre of the road. He drew her to him. This was a well-known ruse that would see bandits emerge from the trees. There was no help for it now. If there were bandits, they’d already been seen so Florence went towards the stricken form with Nat a few paces back, scanning the scene and wishing that he had an automatic weapon.
As she neared it, she saw the shallow rise of breathing, ‘He’s alive, Nat – just,’ she saw the stain through his clothes. He was dressed well, a gentleman but with no cloak. Stolen no doubt. God knew how long he’d lain there in this weather. Florence knelt next to him, turning his limp body as best she could and, seeing his eyes flicker open, cradled his head in her lap. ‘Who has done this?’ He struggled against her, fighting to the last. ‘You are safe. Let us help you.’ She was doubtful that they could do much for him. She could already smell the rot upon him where something was festering. She looked up to Nat who shook his head.
‘Tell us your name, sir,’ he asked, kneeling beside him. At least they might tell someone what had happened to the poor man.
‘Water,’ he croaked. ‘Hugh Gilbert.’
Florence put the flask to his lips, reaching over him and lifting his head so that he might drink. He gulped as the water hit his parched throat and then he stopped and it trickled out of his open mouth. Before Nat could stop him, he had reached up to Florence’s face and was turning it away, the shock evident in his eyes. ‘Your name, woman?’ he gasped. It caused him great effort as he tensed his muscles in this final effort.
What could it hurt, Florence thought? ‘Florence Brock, sir. And you?’
‘The acorn. It is you!’ a trickle of blood seeped out of his mouth mixing with the water. Nat and Florence stared, unable to help him in his dying moments. She cried out as he grabbed her hair with unnatural strength and pulled her near to his mouth, ‘Montebray,’ he rattled and his head fell heavily back into Florence’s lap. She let it go, shocked by the sudden violence.
‘He’s dead,’ Nat said, his foot already slamming into the body as he defended her. ‘Nothing more we can do. Come on,’ he reached down. He hadn’t heard the last words.
‘He knew me Nat. Knew the tattoo,’ Florence was white as she drew back her unkempt hair and he saw the outline of a small acorn tattooed behind her left ear. ‘He said Montebray. What is it?’
‘Place? Person? Never heard of it.’
‘Nat. He knew me. How?’
‘Not here, Florrie. C’mon. We should search him and then get away from the body.’ Nat knew that it wouldn’t be a pleasant task. There were no pockets of course, and so they had to open up his doublet and shirt. Florence looked up and down the road nervously, knowing what this looked like. No one would believe that they hadn’t killed him. Nat’s disgust showed on his face as he searched the flesh of this man, the stench of festering wounds making him turn his head. He ripped open the man’s shirt and Florence gasped. Nat turned his face away as he saw the sores covering the man’s torso. There were puckered flesh burn scars and the suppurating holes of deep infections. These weren’t the marks of battle or simple robbery but of torture. His hand settled on something tucked into the waist of the breeches. They gaped as they saw the red Swiss Army Knife in Nat’s hand.
Florence shook the man, ‘Who are you? When are you from? God, no. Please don’t be dead. Tell us. Wake up!’
Nat was suddenly very nervous, ‘He’s gone, Florrie. Leave him. Come on, let’s move away from here. You’ve got blood on your hands.’ They rolled the body into the long grass of the verge and moved swiftly away.
It was callous but necessary.
Nat held tight to the small object as they found a stream and washed their hands clean. He turned it over in amazement, ‘Used to have one of these as a kid. Lost it in my first year’s training, somewhere on Salisbury Plain. Always missed it,’ he mused. ‘Look – it’s even got the toothpick.’
Florence was deep in thought. ‘You know, we’ve always just accepted that whatever brought us here was just some crazy accident of fate. What if there’s more? Seems to me that the group who know about this — watchers. They maybe have a different perspective on all of it. Nat, how the hell did he know about my tattoo?’ she shivered.
Nat’s eyes were wide, ‘You’re right. Whatever this is, there might be some sort of reason — a plan. But it might all still be chaotic, Florrie. Just the weird physics of the universe. Your tattoo . . . It’s unusual but not unique, I’m guessing. And he was dying, raving. You can’t trust anything he said. Don’t pin your hopes on it.’
She couldn’t help it. ‘Perhaps this Montebray is the name of a watcher?’
‘Maybe. Could be a place.’
‘The penknife. We should keep it — hide it though. It’s a link with the future. Nat do you think he was . . . ?’
‘Like us? Probably. He certainly got it from someone like us.’ Nat was opening out the sharp blades of the penknife and smiling at the corkscrew.
‘Doesn’t change our plan though and find out what we can in Oxford. Perhaps Montebray will mean something there.’ Nat’s insides were churning. Another chink of hope and it was always the hope that destroyed you.
14
Montebray
Two more days with no work and empty bellies. The occasional sighting of troops made them nervous but there seemed little pattern to the movements and no obvious indication where the armies were massing. Nat’s military experience suggested that there was poor leadership at work here and he remembered that it was still early days in this war and no clear leader had emerged yet. As a precaution, they sought the camouflage of the forest whenever they heard the thud of horses and many feet coming nearer and instinctively avoided obvious encampments. Nat thought it best to follow established routes and the one they followed now had all the hall marks of a Roman one. It was set high on the land with deep ditches either side of it and, although it was covered with earth and plant life, when Nat dug a little — with the tool on the penknife - he found a solid footing of ancient large cobbles. He looked pleased with himself.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 14