Truthfully, this was the first pure happiness Florence had experienced since arriving in this harsh past. Suddenly, her home was restored to her. Surely, Montebray held the answer to their strange fate. Something here would help them to understand how they’d travelled over three hundred and fifty years back in time and might even show them how to go home. Florence thought that if she’d had ruby shoes, she might have clicked the heels together three times and sighed, ‘There’s no place like home.’
Nat watched her face as the vision of the house warmed her. She was far too confident as they followed the farm hands around to the back of the building and the servants’ yard, knowing exactly where she was going. They waited in its square horseshoe with open stables and workshops on two sides and its cobbled surface, whilst the steward was fetched, their weariness at odds with their anticipation of finding something extraordinary here.
With aching feet and legs, and hollow stomachs, they stood, trying to look as respectable as they could, hopeful that the steward would see fit to take them on at least for a few days and give them respite and a chance to find some answers.
Nat nudged her once as she looked around her beaming as though she’d found treasure. ‘Florrie, stop it. You’re attracting attention.’ She struggled to lower her head and hide her joy.
A tall, sparse man emerged from the darkness of the rear entrance of the hall. Ezra Holless, a dry husk of a man with crepe greying skin, sharp features and eyes like black marbles, moved silently around the perimeter of the house with a gait like a ship in a storm, swaying carefully from side to side as he progressed with little sound. He frequently surprised servants, emerging out of the shadows of a corner of a room or suddenly appearing as they turned a corner.
Dressed in black, which was shiny with grease, he never raised his rasping voice and when he spoke, it was at a measured pace. Ezra Holless had never been known to change his mind once made up. He was a cunning and perceptive man who seemed to know what people were thinking and was able to look into their hidden thoughts with those hooded eyes. His own thoughts and opinions were as unknown as his origins, except for his unswerving loyalty to his young master. He left his steel lank hair long, hanging limply around his sallow face and heavy ears which poked through it. Wide, thin shoulders supported his craned neck which was thick with tendons and ageing muscles and he had the stillness of a vulture waiting for a carcass to rot! He strode towards them with long and purposeful steps giving them time to worry about what sins he might see in them. Florence noted that whilst his clothes might be dirty, they were a cut above those of the rest of the servants and he wore striking silver buckles on his shoes.
The steward said nothing and so Nat broke the silence, ‘Sir, we…’ he was halted by the man’s hand raised up flat in interruption and speaking so quietly that they had to strain to listen.
‘You’ll do me the courtesy, Sirrah of not offering to speak until I ask it of ye.’ He’d still not met their eyes but was scanning them with his, assessing them. In a tone suggesting some authority, his hoarse voice asked with an edge of menace, ‘Well, you do not look riddled with disease. What is your trade?’
‘I am a carpenter and joiner, Master.’ Keep it simple, thought Nat and don’t react. Holless twitched a little at the sound of Nat’s voice.
‘And you . . . girl?’ his lip curled in contempt at Florence’s ragged appearance and he took in her short hair with a scowl. ‘Are you ill or are you marked?’
Florence had handled this challenge before. ‘I was ill, sir, a severe chill and cut my own hair in order to aid my recovery. I am well now, as you see.’
The man did not look convinced and curled his lip, ‘You have skills?’
She hated this bit where she had to admit to no particular skill at all — unless pig whisperer . . . ‘I can work hard in the kitchen, Sir, or in the gardens. I am happy to . . . ’
‘You’ll be ‘happy’ to do whatever it is I might tell ye, should I take you on! Hold your tongue. A babbling wench is an immodest creature.’ Florence needed food and rest more than she needed to respond to that. Her stomach rumbled audibly. Nat hoped that she wasn’t provoked any further. She wasn’t good when she was hungry.
Another long, uncomfortable silence settled as Holless seemed to consider them further and Florence and Nat kept their anger wrapped. ‘Aye. Well.’ It seemed that he was forced into an admission. ‘We have work for ye both — but mind: I need strong workers who’ll not complain or slack. Your skill, carpenter, will be tested — you have your own tools?’ he added as an afterthought. ‘I’ve no interest in a tradesman who has not the possession of his own tools; it is a sloppy trait.’ Nat nodded feeling less guilty about the theft of them. It was obvious that Holless was reluctant to take them on but needed the labour.
‘I’ve work for you as a skivvy to Cook, girl. You’ll do as she says and if she’s not happy with you, you’ll walk on from here. None of your back-chat now.’ He stared hard at her and she wondered whether he despised all women. ‘For an honest day’s work, you’ll have wholesome food and a bed; you will have warm clothes on your back and what’s torn will be mended. You will be paid thruppence a day.’ He saw Nat bridle at the paltry amount. The man was taking advantage of their need.
‘I am a craftsman, master and might earn 9d a day . . .’
‘Then go. Leave this place and seek work for your 9d. Montebray will give you a bed, clothes and a full belly but it will pay thruppence and not a ha’penny more.’ Holless turned his back on them.
‘Nat!’ Florence hissed, ‘I can’t . . . we need to know . . . ’
‘We’ll take it, master.’ Nat called after him. Holless slowed and then stopped and eventually turned around.
The bluff had been called and now he had them at his mercy. ‘Brother and sister, eh?’ Holless didn’t bother to disguise his scepticism and then threatened, ‘Mark you. This is a Godly house and you’ll do well to recall that at all times.’ They nodded, too hungry to reply. Holless seemed to be inspired. ‘Away then Sirrah, follow Jonathan and the field boys. I shall give you the chance to earn your supper tonight.’ He squinted up into the sky and shared a view of his mismatched browning teeth as he smiled, ‘There are two good hours of God’s light before supper and tasks to be completed. Go. Leave your bag here. None will disturb it.’ It was a threat as much as a promise. And so, Nat set off with Jonathan for another two hours’ labour in the fields. The boys were bitterly disappointed that Holless had found more work for them when they’d thought their day was ended and it was Nat who was to blame! No one spoke to him or walked beside him.
‘You, girl. With me.’ Florence found that his loping stride was difficult to keep up with. He glided and was surprisingly quick and she had to skip briskly to keep up.
In the kitchen, she was introduced peremptorily to Cook and deposited there. Cook, one of the thinnest, most petite women Florence had ever seen, was the mistress of this domain and was surprised and somewhat irritated at having to manage a new arrival at this point in the day. She disapproved of the state that Florence was in, ‘There’s no place for filth in my kitchen, girl. Go out to the well and wash yourself — and be thorough! I expect to see clean flesh when you return.’
Florence had to admit that she wouldn’t want her around food either! She came back to find a platter of bread and butter set out for her.
‘Eat. You’ll not be of any use to me if you’re starving and stealing food the while, and as she passed, she grabbed one of the slices of bread herself and devoured it with great efficiency and satisfaction. ‘When you’ve finished – and be quick mind – take those rabbits and skin them. Fresh caught they are so watch that you don’t splatter my whole kitchen!’
Florence needed no further invitation to eat. She tore the bread and butter and chewed hard, swallowing quickly. It was magnificent — with far less of the harsh grit that she’d become used to. It took her no more than thirty-seconds standing and wiping her mouth after a large swig of cider
, she turned towards the heap of dead rabbits. Oh God! Where to begin? She wasn’t squeamish. She had every expectation that these rabbits would make an excellent meal, she just didn’t know what to do with them. She picked the first one up by the leg and it dangled and dripped blood onto the flagstone floor. With the small knife provided, she started to hack off the foot but it didn’t go well and she was soon sawing at it ineffectively.
‘What in the good Lord’s name are you doing, girl!’ shrilled the cook, snatching the knife from her. Exasperated, she viewed Florence, seeing immediately what the issue was. ‘Doesn’t even know how to skin a rabbit!’ she snorted, shaking her head. ‘I shall show you once. You will pay attention and then you will do the rest.’ She raised her eyebrows at Florence, checking that she was understood. Then she spoke in a quieter voice but far kinder. ‘What is your name?’
‘Florence.’ A strange expression passed over Cook’s face as she heard it.
‘Florence. I see. And where do you call home Florrie?’
‘I . . . I am with my brother. We have been walking for a long time looking for shelter and work. I will try my very best, Cook.’ Florence couldn’t remember ever feeling more humble.
‘You will and I shall see to that. Well, Florrie, there is something which you should understand. If you do not do the task to my satisfaction, I shall have no choice but to inform Master Holless – for he will see it soon enough. My position here depends on my running of this kitchen and I cannot — and will not - shelter you from him - so watch with care girl, and learn.’ And she proceeded to take a large chopping knife and removed the head and the feet of the rabbit, throwing them into the bucket by the table. Piercing the back of the delicate rabbit skin, she sliced it deftly down its length and peeled it like an orange. There was no mess and no fuss. She lay the shining skinned carcass down and sliced through its belly, pulling out the guts and tipping them into the same bucket. Finally, she checked that all the unnecessary had been removed, and lay the gently oozing flesh at the far end of the scrubbed block. Wiping her hands on her apron she looked at Florence. ‘You have it?’ Florence nodded which was no more than Cook expected. ‘Be quick then. They’ve to be in my pie crust for supper!’ and she left Florence to the remaining animals, supervising her out of the corner of her eye.
Six rabbits later, with a bucket full of gore, heads and feet, Florence felt that this was a job well done. She was up to her elbows in fur and carnage but the rabbits were now meat carcasses and ready to be chopped up for Cook’s pies. The woman had watched her carefully and nodded approval at the job, telling her to go clean up before the next task. It was a busy kitchen and Florence had a full stomach. There was the prospect of a decent night’s sleep and Cook had approved. She even had a new skill. All was good with the world. The questions would wait until morning.
Nat was equally busy but none of the sulking boys had shared their food with him. They were set to cutting fire logs from the fallen trees in the woodland and it was very heavy work. They did have a small barrel of beer with a cup fastened to it and it was acceptable to swig a mouthful of that every so often during this thirsty work. Nat was glad that it was just the small-beer; it was dangerous work. The sawing was a two-man job and he soon earned the respect and gratitude of his young partner for his efforts. Despite the boys’ bravado, it was useful to have a grown man to help them with their task. When some of the men had gone to the armies, tempted by the offer of good pay and adventure in a just cause — whatever the side – it was these boys who continued the work at Montebray and kept it going. Talk was unnecessary and frankly, a waste of energy but the odd gruff grunt or tip of the head showed him that his fellow workers were satisfied with him. When they had filled the small hand cart and started to pull and push it back towards the house, Nat too, felt that he’d done a good job. They unloaded the wood in the shed and swilled off the grime before entering the kitchen for a meal, the smell of which was making them all salivate.
Holless, with a knack of materialising like smoke, had appeared in the kitchen, just as the meal came together. He directed two girls to take a tray of pie and bread upstairs and, satisfied that all had been prepared adequately, he nodded formally to Cook and followed them out. The tension in the room went with him and the conversation was kindled. Cook took her seat and the rest followed, sitting on the benches at the long, trestle table.
Diplomatically, Nat and Florence waited for everyone else to sit before taking their places opposite one another at the bottom of the table. A lad seated near to Florence led a surprisingly heartfelt grace and then, although it was a wait before the remnants of the pie and the hot, crusty bread seemed to reach them, the others had been fair and there were portions left for them — if rather messy ones. They helped themselves to the rabbit pie, now fragrant with herbs, and watched the gravy seep into their doughy trenchers. Nothing would be wasted. All conversation paused while the first bites hit empty bellies, but as they became full, they began to share talk of the day, jokes of mishaps and surprises and then, finally they turned their attention to the new-comers who were still very focused on the wholesome meal.
A girl near to Florence, smiled at her. ‘Prudence Southey. Known as ‘Pru’ to one and all. That feel better does it?’ she indicated Florence’s empty bowl.
Florence grinned back. ‘It does! We were most hungry — my brother and I,’ she added pointedly. ‘It’s a hard life trying to find work on the road.’
‘Aye.’ Her smile faded. ‘It’s a hard life anywhere for the likes of us, friend.’ And she turned away to chat.
God yes! Thought Florence. She’d never known what hunger was before or what lack of shelter actually meant. Would it be like this forever now? She couldn’t think like this now. She was full of rabbit pie and small ale and she was sleepy and ready for her bed so that when the girl, Prudence, offered to show her where it was, she followed gladly, glancing briefly at Nat who was already following the lads to their quarters. He smiled wearily at her and winked as he left.
The girls had pallets in the lofts of the hall — except for Cook who preferred to sleep in the kitchen – and they climbed up a stone servants’ staircase leading from the basement kitchen, which then became thin wooden slats until finally becoming ladders as they neared the top. They were allowed one covered lantern, and Florence’s pallet and thick blanket were at the far end of the loft. She didn’t remember her head hitting the non-existent pillow and fell asleep hoping that Nat was housed equally as well.
16
First Light
Someone kicked her none too gently, rousing her from a deep sleep. She was refreshed. Opening her eyes, Florence was momentarily surprised not to see Nat’s familiar mop of curls beside her, but Prudence standing over her, hands on hips. ‘Will you be joining us today or shall I tell Cook that you have no need for breakfast?’ Florence was ready in an instant and was not disappointed. The food was plentiful and tasty, although she still was not enthusiastic about quaffing the small ale. She longed for orange juice and coffee. It seemed that Nat had adapted well. There was no chance to speak to him as they were given their tasks for the day. He grinned at her and she smiled back. They knew what they had to do.
Inevitably, Florence was given the least welcome tasks. She didn’t mind helping Cook – there were often titbits to be had because Cook ate her own way through the day and encouraged her helpers to taste the food as she cooked it. How was the woman not as round as a barrel! But Florence didn’t quibble. She didn’t mind being the scullery maid. No. What she really hated was (still) the bloody laundry, which was housed in the courtyard outhouse, where a copper vat rested above the brick kiln. Unfortunately, Florence knew the job. She lit the fire, kept it going with logs and then carried the water from the well. It was back-breaking work. As she waited for the water to boil, she remembered how this whole area had been devoted to her father’s obsession with cars, many of which were ancient and rusting, but that he couldn’t bear to throw away. One or two of them we
re actually restored — but even then, he couldn’t sell them. She smiled as her vision misted and she recalled how it was the one area which her parents rowed about. She unwrapped the small hot cake which Cook had provided her with - Cook’s philosophy being that better work was obtained from folk with full stomachs. Florence wondered where Nat was.
Once the water was hot, and the lye was added, the laundry was soaked. Dear God but it was foul! They collected ashes from the fires and the men provided buckets of urine, and animal fat came from the slaughter house. The barrelled mixture, produced a primitive lye soap - a noxious substance in which the most stained clothes were laid to soak overnight. Florence had to get them into the cauldron. At first, she had done this using a long stick - despite the stench, - until she realised that she had burns on her hands and arms. Then she spotted the huge tongs hanging nearby. Advanced technology. Luxury!
All day she boiled the heavy clothes. The fine linens and lace were sent to a specialist laundry in the town. Once she felt that the stains were largely gone, she pulled out the items and flung them into the rinsing vat and rested them on the washed stone floor to drain a little but then it was hand wringing, sometimes with two of them taking the items and wringing them between them. Finally, they hung the larger items across a strung rope in the sunshine on the outer of the south courtyard, but the small cloths were draped across bushes and low trees in that area. It was utterly exhausting and she was profoundly glad that it was no more than a monthly task.
That evening, Cook had seen the livid lye burns on her hands and arms and after a lot of tutting and ‘no more sense than’ several dozen times, she applied a soft cream to her which seemed to smell of marigolds and butter. It eased the stinging and tonight they ate pea and ham hock, thick and gloopy which also helped. Florence knew the kitchen. The huge fireplace, which she remembered having housed an ancient and temperamental Aga, surrounded by logs, was in this time an open range but still the hub of the activity. Cupboards had been replaced by shelves and side tables but she thought that the great oak table in the centre of the room could easily have been the one that someday she would carve her initials on. She wanted to look on the underside of it to see if the family tradition of carved initials was there.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 16