‘Whatever,’ her feet were too sore for archaeology. She saw the bright enthusiasm in his eyes and she wanted to share it, really she did. If only her feet didn’t hurt so. The blisters from the clogs were fat and raw and each new one that burst was like walking on glass. If the days were hard, the nights were harder. A blanket each and some basic supplies, made their campfire a tolerable. Florence would search for kindling while Nat dragged any larger branches or logs towards their camp. It wasn’t as easy on the damp forest floor.
Nat thought he’d chosen his moment carefully when he give her a survival tip, ‘Just a thought . . . ’ she looked at him through slatted eyes which should have warned him, ‘might be better if you kept a little of the dry kindling each day, so that we can start the fire . . . ’ her look stopped him. ‘Yeah. Well, I could keep some in my…’ his voice trailed off.
The log she hurled onto the blaze, made him pat down the sparks on his clothes.
It took Florence two days to admit that the dry kindling might have been a good idea and then she gave him a lop-sided grin, ‘Blisters are a bit better today,’ she confessed.
In another life, a camp fire was an indulgence, the centre of an evening filled with friends and beer. Now it was an essential. The mesmerising flames became the focus of their nights and they talked as they stared into them, hearing the satisfaction of crackling wood as the fire took hold and they spoke of rest and safety in the bubble of the fire’s warmth. When the fire only smouldered and sulked, they became fractious with one another but when the fire burned brightly, it lifted their spirits. It was a flattering light, romantic, forgiving. It made their tired faces glow against the blackness of the forest.
One black night, when there was no moon and they had feasted well on rabbit stuffed with mushrooms and some wild garlic which she’d come upon, they sat back against a log, sucking the bones and wishing that they had some beer. Florence looked at him in the sympathetic light and her finger pressed in to the deep dimple set in his chin.
He stopped chewing and his face turned to her, ‘Family thing,’ he managed, ‘runs on my father’s side.’
‘I like it.’
Nat swallowed, ‘Do you now?’
‘Mmm.’ She was tracing the outline of his mouth with her fingers.
‘You?’ he mumbled, his lips caressing the rabbit flavoured finger tips.
‘What?’ she asked dreamily.
‘Any dimples?’ he grinned and was rewarded with a gentle push on his chest which he allowed to move him, enjoying the touch of her hand and then moving back towards her.
‘No dimples. Couple of birth marks though…’ her eyes were bright in the firelight. He raised an eyebrow, thinking that he might search for them, but Florence was masterly at disarming before a question.
‘Girlfriend . . . wife at home?’ it was innocently asked but there was no disguising the determination in it.
Nat tried hard not to react, not to ruin the moment.
‘I . . . was married,’ be blurted out before thinking how to phrase it.
Florence hadn’t expected that.
He felt her stiffen and pull away a little, trying to look unaffected. It was irrational. Why shouldn’t he have had a life — relationships – before being here? She had no right to be surprised.
‘You didn’t say,’ she said, lightly.
‘Was over years ago. Divorced. Just didn’t work out. Mutual agreement. No worries.’ Florence managed a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘I see. You could have said.’ She couldn’t help the petulance. Surely this was something that he should have told her? After all, she’d told him about Henry. Florence didn’t like the stab of jealousy that she felt about a woman who was not alive — wasn’t even been born yet.
‘I . . . ’ Nat tried to change tack. Regretting that any search for her birthmarks was forlorn. ‘You know, Florrie, we both had lives before . . . this. It just didn’t seem . . . relevant.’ Nat wrapped himself in his blanket and rolled over with his back to the fire. The moment was lost.
They were quiet for most of the next day, until in the afternoon they saw a small family group in the distance and Florence insisted that they remained on the road to ask these people where the hell they were and if they’d ever heard of something, someone, called Montebray. Tempers were frayed between them and Florence was feeling increasingly anxious. She had a strong sense of some impending event and she couldn’t shake it.
After a brief hissed spat about the dangers, Nat had to concede that the family was unlikely to be a band of marauding bandits and so they approached them. Drawing nearer, it was apparent that the approaching group were equally mistrustful of them. Children were ushered on to the cart and gathered in to an elderly grandmother, and mother and father were poised for any attack. Nat held up his hands as he came near.
‘Good day to you.’ Nat sounded more cheerful than he felt. ‘Travelled far today?’
‘Aye,’ the father replied, cautiously. He looked to be no more than 25 or so but it was hard to tell, for times were harsh on the poor. There was an awkward silence and then he heard Florence’s voice from behind him.
‘A pretty babby, mistress!’ The infant of nine months or so, was being held on to firmly by the grandmother, as it wriggled and squirmed to be free. It looked close to bawling and truthfully Florence had no idea if it was pretty or not because it was heavily swaddled in dirty clothes. It broke the ice.
The young mother grinned a gappy grin, ‘She is that — but sucks like a lamprey eel! You’ve none of your own?’ She looked around as though they might be hiding in the ditches.
‘We have not been blessed with any,’ Florence managed, grateful for small mercies and she smiled as the young woman’s expression change from pity to envy. She had three under five and she scowled at her husband, who looked for a change of topic.
Walking towards Nat, defences lowered, he enquired, ‘You heading to Birmingham?’
‘Birmingham? No. How far is it along?’
‘A good day’s travel on foot — maybe two,’ he added helpfully.
Nat’s memories of Birmingham were of a vast multicultural city with ugly concrete buildings which sprawled for miles into the suburbs. He didn’t know how large the place was now but instinct told him that they’d be better skirting the city; they’d no reason to go there. The man seemed to agree with him.
‘We’ve had our fill of its stink. My wife and I - and her mother,’ he added with less grace. ‘We’ve hopes of some work on the land towards Nottingham. Gwynne’s mother seems to remember that she has some kin in Newstead – Byrons. Perhaps you’ve heard of the family?’ Nat shook his head. ‘Pity. Them’s told us that tanning is strong in Nottingham.’
Nat was incredulous. If this small group was looking for fresh air out of Birmingham, then the tanning trade was not a place to look. Florence had wandered over to coo over the baby and was rewarded and surprised by the grandmother, who was probably only in her early forties herself, enthusiastically handing the wriggling burden down. Florence realised her error as she was immediately conscious of a heavy wet stink emanating from the cloth the child was wrapped in. She brought her hand away to find the stain of the child on it. Ugh! No one offered aid or moved towards the child to change its clout and so Florence held it at arm’s length and thrust it towards its mother who took it back reluctantly, lay it across her lap and quickly disposed of the dirty clout, shaking its contents out into the ditch and wiping the child’s raw looking bottom with a clump of damp moss. Florence followed the example and used the moss to wipe her hand, trying not to look appalled. The grandmother passed a clean cloth to Florence who handed it to the mother and the child was changed in quick order and on being turned back, threw itself backwards and rooted for the woman’s breast. The father rolled his eyes. ‘Aye, well, ‘tis looking like a cob or two for us whilst little Susannah takes her fill. Greedy babby!’ he said fondly. ‘We can share what fare we have - if you be in need? You’d be welcome, be it so li
ttle.’
They didn’t need further invitation. The children and grandmother disembarked from the cart and an oiled cloth was set out on the grass. They spread the bread cobs together with some very hard cheese with blue veins in it and a flagon of rough cider which the children drank cut with water. Nat and Florence contributed some hazelnuts and berries — and mushrooms that added some flavour and Florence thought that the lack of comment on this offering spoke volumes about the family’s generosity. Yes, there were villains here, greedy and cruel people who would treat you harshly but there were folk like these who, having little, shared even that with strangers. It was heartening.
‘We are looking for Montebray. Will you have heard of such?’ Florence asked.
‘Montebray? Nay. Is it a place then?’ the young father asked.
‘We don’t know. It may be a person.’
The young man looked at her, ‘Well, we know no one of that name and we’ve not travelled through such a place,’ he replied. Florence smiled anyway.
They left the family, who wanted to find a town before nightfall, and, as the sun was beginning to set, their spirits were even lower at the prospect of spending another night in the open. Florence had been scanning the countryside about her intently when they came over the brow of a hill and saw a field in the distance where a small group of people worked. Nat looked at Florence and she nodded but suddenly grasped his arm, ‘Nat… there’s something…I’m not sure…’ He took it to be reasonable caution in these times and he patted her hand.
‘Don’t worry. We’ll be careful,’ but he could feel the slight tremble in her body.
As they began their descent, they were careful to remain as visible as they could. People liked to see strangers from a distance. As they neared, they saw that this was a small group of youngsters hovering by hayricks as their working day was coming to an end and they had a few moments of leisure before the call to supper and bed. During her time here, Florence had realised that childhood was short but she was surprised that this group consisted solely of teenagers. She wondered if the absence of adults was a complication of the war. The group reacted as they saw the two strangers striding towards them. The boys, out to impress their women, stood forward in challenge.
Nat called out, ‘Afternoon to you!’ and there were guffaws at his accent. No one replied as they drew closer.
Florence had adopted the habit here of walking a little behind, keeping her head lowered and saying nothing. Ridiculous! Now that they were closer, they could see the estate’s house nestled in the valley below. She squinted her eyes at it, trying to see through the lengthening shadows.
‘A fine house. How is it called?’ Nat swaggered about, hauling his bag ostentatiously from one shoulder to another, showing that there were no weapons on his person. It was polite in such straightened times.
‘This ‘ere is Montebray Hall,’ the foremost of the youths replied, ‘Master Denzil Moorcroft’s lands.’
Nat felt Florence close by his back, ‘Montebray?’ she breathed, ‘Nat . . . ’
‘And does your master have the need of two workers who will take an honest wage for an honest day’s work?’ They were within feet of the group now and could see that the youngsters looked warmly clothed and well fed. The youth sneaked a look back at his friends and braced himself in front of Nat, who offered no challenge to the lad.
‘And do we not have the look of good workers?’ the lad had mimicked Nat’s strange inflection. He was looking to impress his fellows but Nat was very tired and too hungry to engage in this pissing contest. He faced the young man and took half a step towards him so that the boy could see that there was no match.
‘Aye lad,’ he spoke quietly, ‘you do. You look like lads and lasses who look to their supper after a full day’s toil, so mayhap you’ll take us with you to whoever hires and we can ask our question there? We too are hungry so it’s that — or maybe I’ll just eat you.’ The boy broke the stare first, perhaps reminded that they were indeed ready for supper. He decided to laugh at Nat’s joke and the bubble of tension was popped. Conversations began all round and the young man broke into a wide grin and jerked his head towards the house indicating that they should follow him. Nat and Florence fell in behind them. Florence was quivering with tension.
As they walked together, Jonathan told him that they were indeed short-handed, since so many had gone off to Oxford to see about the fighting. ‘It’s where I shall be going when I reach fourteen!’ he boasted. ‘Jonathan Fracklington,’ he offered.
‘Nathanial Haslet. I am pleased to know you, Jonathan.’
‘You’ll have to speak to the Steward - Holless,’ there was a moment’s frisson throughout the group and neither Nat nor Florence missed it.
‘A harsh task master, eh?’ Nat hinted.
‘Holless is . . . a sour man — but fair.’ Something was unsaid. It wasn’t quite the right word. ‘But you’ll be well fed and shod and there’s a decent bed for them that stays.’ The young man was sincere. ‘Besides, you’ll stay for Cook’s puddings if nothing else!’ They all laughed and Nat and Florence’s mouths watered.
The four girls gravitated around her, ‘Looking for work then, you and your…’
‘Brother,’ she replied quickly and loudly enough so that Nat might hear it. ‘We are. We’re going to Oxford to meet with family.’ The girl smiled. Florence wanted to speak to Nat – urgently — but she couldn’t escape the girls’ curiosity.
Nat overheard her. Brother, eh? He jutted out his bottom lip a little as he accepted it and tried to understand it. Ah, the boys and girls would be housed separately and there might not be accommodation for a married pair. They might even gather better information separately. He saw why she’d said it and tried not to be disappointed. He also knew that his revelation about being divorced had had an impact on Florence. She was being bloody unreasonable, he thought. Not only was he divorced but the bloody woman wasn’t even alive. Not for the first time, he thought that he didn’t really understand women.
15
Picture Perfect
They lost sight of the buildings as they descended the hill but as they neared the landscape unfolded from its hedges and small hillocks to reveal the true beauty of the early Tudor house, cushioned in the valley. Even the small band of youngsters paused when it first came into view and looked at the man and the woman, waiting for their reaction, puffing with pride when they got the one they’d expected. It couldn’t be helped. The place was picture perfect and it was, quite simply, lovely.
As they’d crested the hill, Florence had moved beside him and she froze, eyes wide with shock. ‘Nat!’ she gasped. ‘It’s . . . ’
‘Beautiful, isn’t it? Like a picture postcard,’ he smiled and then saw her face. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s not wrong. It’s . . . home!’
‘I don’t . . . ’
‘Nat, this is my home. My real home. My family’s home in 2020,’ her face was full of the impossibility of it. ‘It’s not Montebray. This is Locksley Hall. It’s. My. Home.’
‘Are you sure? How do you know? How can it be?’
‘Look! See that gable end, towards the left?’ he nodded. ‘My room. I grew up here. This is Locksley hall, I’m telling you: I’m a hundred percent sure.’ It was a whispered, urgent conversation and it was beginning to draw attention.
Nat shook his head, looking from her to the farm hands, disappearing into the distance and he saw Jonathan turn around and wave them onwards. He returned the wave amicably.
Florence was agitated, ‘Come on. This is no coincidence Nat. Something’s drawn us here. Don’t you feel it? It’s like an elastic that keeps snapping back in to place. Oh God! Home,’ she sighed as she picked up her tired feet.
Nat slowed her, ‘Florrie, don’t get your hopes up. It’s not what you knew — know. This house belongs to someone else — it’s not even the same name – if it is the same place.’ If she gave them away and started cavorting around the place like she did own
it, they could be in trouble. He agreed with her about the elastic. He was almost beginning to feel Time swirling around them and nudging them.
Four gables were divided by the generous entrance porch which had its own central section and gable, the stone roof tiles holding a tint of verdigris and eccentrically irregular. There were two main storeys and a row of small attic windows peeked out between the points of the sharp gables. The windows themselves were stone mullioned with the diamond leaded glass sparkling where the sun’s last beams hit its irregularities. Even for a house, probably less than two centuries old, the wooden frame had warped charmingly and nothing was entirely perpendicular, the sections seeming to lean against one another for support. Florence felt that she could see the outlines of the vast oak beams used to provide the structure for the wattle and daub fill, and the exterior of narrow orange-red bricks. She was bewitched by the sight of it, as she stood gazing at it in the afternoon haze of the early spring. She knew what it would look like, knew how the inside would be, saw what was missing — yet to be built.
The chimneys were the same, a dozen of them, tall and surprisingly slim, reaching up and all brick-made with a twisted barley pattern which gave the house added elegance and status. They’d given her parents nightmares about the repair bills. She recognised the original body of the house and even now it had been extended, with odd sections butted on to the original at right angles and then some onto those, so that tiny recesses and sheltered gardens were created. The west wing was too small; it would be extended a hundred and fifty years from now but the long gallery was still magnificent with its expansive windows.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 15