Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles

by Jayne Hackett

  17

  Little Lord Fauntleroy

  Ah, sighed Denzil Moorcroft, I have been absent for too long. He breathed in the fresh air free of fumes other than wood-smoke. And then the quickening of the tree was always . . . invigorating. Holless, could be trusted with the upkeep of Montebray – could be trusted with his life — but the man was distinctly lacking in shrewdness or charisma. He had adopted puritan affectations in recent months which were no substitute for a sharp wit. Like all radical ideas, it brooked no interrogation. He supposed that he was fond of the man, despite his peculiarity and his fatherly pretensions.

  Denzil always savoured his return home, wallowing in his short journey towards the Hall in the valley, knowing that he owned all that he surveyed but this return brought him only anger. Pinned by a handmade nail to a low branch in the tree was a short note which only he would have understood. It was penned by Holless in his thick, clumsy hand and it was to the point. ‘He has escaped.’ Denzil had snatched it from the wood and boiled with fury. How? How in hell’s name could anyone have escaped that God-forsaken hole? Only Holless had the key and Hugh Gilbert was in a pathetic state. Denzil had given specific instructions that the man was to be kept alive until he returned. Damn Holless! He inhaled deeply through his nostrils and set his spurs into the flanks of the unruly stallion he’d long-tethered there, setting course for Montebray.

  Today, he didn’t take the circuitous route on this rebellious horse, but galloped directly through the fields, not caring that his direction home was detected. His anger did not prevent him from assessing the state of the crops. Denzil’s hours researching agricultural methods, were of no use if the dolts in his keep were not doing as he instructed, and it was obvious that Holless had no interest. He understood why the man preferred to keep to the house and rarely ventured onto the estate unless he’d been directed there. The man had spent many years in the wilds, and was somewhat afraid of the forest and the power of nature. Denzil usually allowed him that small indulgence — he owed him that much. Today, it was a good thing that Holless was not abroad because Denzil might have struck him for his ineptitude. Escape! It was infuriating and he used the whip on the foaming stallion.

  Approaching the Lee field at a reckless speed, he saw the young labourers toiling in the morning rain, drab dots on the landscape. The great horses he’d introduced, snorted spouts of steam into the crisp air, like boiling kettles but they weren’t hitched to the plough. It displeased him. They needed to be planting the corn, which would feed the sheep and the household if the fighting encroached upon them. Denzil’s latest investigations confirmed that it wouldn’t and that Montebray would remain safe and unthought of in the chaos that was the Civil War. He wanted it to remain so.

  As he came closer, he recognised some of the boys and knew a few of their names, although that was Holless’ remit . . . but soft! There was another much taller figure. A new man. He raged again that Holless had taken on a farm-hand without his express permission and then he reined his ire in. Holless would not have done such a rash thing without very good cause. Denzil increased his grip on the reins and snatched the frantic horse towards the group of men in the Lee field.

  Work stopped as he neared and they recognised him. This was such a rare occasion that they really didn’t know what to do. Hats were removed and short bows made, as they waited for his instruction. All but the man, with his back to him, who was still calling out, ‘Jonathan, lad! Will you lever your end of this rock or am I shifting it on my own!’ Jonathan looked perplexed looking from Denzil to the voice.

  ‘Well, Jonathan, go help the poor fellow,’ laughed Denzil from the height of his horse.

  Nat straightened. He was wearing no hat and his curls were dripping with rain. ‘My pardon, master. I did not see you.’ He inclined his head and a slight frown appeared as he spotted the blood around the horse’s soft mouth.

  ‘Nor should you have, boy. You were employed in your proper work on my land and I commend you for being industrial.’ Denzil saw the twitch in Nat’s eye as he named him ‘boy’.

  ‘Nathaniel Haslet, Sir.’

  ‘Indeed. Haslet. Holless has taken you on no doubt.’ Nat caught the irritation and disapproval.

  ‘Aye Sir. Mister Holless was kind enough to set us on — for a week or so and we are most grateful Sir.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My sister, Florence and I.’

  Denzil wanted to leap off the horse. He wanted to place his hands around Haslet’s throat and demand to be taken to the woman Florence. He felt his mouth fill with saliva in anticipation of seeing her. He showed nothing as he fought to stay calm.

  ‘I see. Your trade, boy?’ He looked down at Nat from the height of his saddle.

  ‘I am a carpenter, Sir, but will take such work as keeps my sister and I warm and fed.’ Nat didn’t mind a bit of humility in a good cause.

  ‘I hear from your speech that you are from further afield. From whence do you hail?’

  ‘We are from Sherwood in the shire of Nottingham, on our way to family in Oxford. We must thank you for taking us on to work, Master Moorcroft.’

  The man’s posture and his words were mismatched, thought Denzil. These humble thanks were in contrast to the challenge in the man’s eyes and in his stance. Denzil could see the evidence of Haslet’s tension through the soaked fabric of the dirty shirt. There was a secret there which Haslet did not want uncovered. If this man was the companion of the woman Hugh Gilbert had named, then Denzil wanted them at Montebray - but he could not yet be sure. The name was not uncommon and there’d been no mention of a man from Gilbert’s lips. This Nat Haslet was of no matter but if the woman was the one spoken of, she was a jewel beyond price. Denzil gathered up the reins tighter and made to turn, keen to return to the hall, but it seemed that this new man had more to say. He stepped up to the stallion and placed his hand on the horse’s bloody face.

  ‘In the absence of your steward, Sir, might I be so bold as to suggest that the land is too wet to plough today? We can barely push the ploughshare through the earth – but there is much still to do in the barn where we might usefully…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You may not be so bold.’ Denzil twisted the horse around so that Nat jumped back. He spoke menacingly, ‘Do you think to tell me what task you should undertake, Sirrah? What! Is your arm so frail that you cease your effort at the first obstacle? I would not have thought it. Why, these young boys do not flinch from honest labour. Perhaps my steward had it false and you should be on your way.’ His voice was calm and steady even as the stallion twisted in his grip.

  ‘Your pardon, Sir. I am sure that we can prevail.’ Nat saw that he’d made an enemy in the Master of Montebray and cursed himself for an idiot. That could not help their cause.

  ‘Indeed,’ Denzil’s dark expression evaporated to one of sunshine, ‘Well, carry on my boys. The corn will see us through if trouble should appear on our doorstep. You do good work here. Your efforts do you credit.’ Several of them nodded in appreciation but Denzil thought that a couple looked . . . chagrined at the thought of the heavy and wet work. It seemed clear where their small act of rebellion had taken its nourishment from. He turned the fretting horse for home and left them, drenched, in the open field, trying to plough the impossible sodden earth and planning a retort for Nat Haslet’s insolence.

  Nat was silent as he doubled his efforts to guide the plough through the heavy sludge. Nearby, the horses chomped the grass, useless in these conditions. It wouldn’t go well if one of them broke a leg in the mud.

  Denzil gave the horse its head and they galloped back down to the Hall, the frenzy of the beast matching his own quiet fury. At every stride, the fine horse risked them both on the slippery path with puddles hiding deep holes and ruts, but his rider cared nothing for that. He felt the sting of irritation and smarted at the impudence of the drudge, challenging him – and before his own workers!

  Certainly, Haslet was a man and
not a youth but even so, it was an unconscious response, he thought. The man was used to leading men - he saw how the lads looked to him. Ah yes. He knew this man’s type! Knew how such men liked to give ‘advice’ and ‘suggestions’. He remembered their patronising speech. There was an absence in Haslet’s voice of that note of respectful hesitation that Denzil had grown to love and expect. The man had little sense of his place that much was clear in the way in which he offered a suggestion to his better. This small rebellion must be crushed, Denzil sighed. It would be . . . unhelpful if Haslet encouraged his people to have opinions. The horse slowed as they neared home and Denzil smiled to himself as he resolved what to do.

  The afternoon was dreary. Each and every one of them had given their all. They were so exhausted that they could barely lift one foot in front of another and their trudge back to the Hall was made heavier by the weight of thick mud that stuck to their clothes and clogs. If they’d thought that Nat was about to speak out about the Master, they were disappointed. He had bowed his head just like they had – and said nothing. Nat knew that no good could come of discord at Montebray. These lads were already close to sniffing the gun-powder of warfare and in their youth and inexperience, would easily become cannon fodder in a power struggle played out by powerful men. Much better that they stay in this Shangri-La and live simple and uneventful lives.

  Jonathan thought to open the conversation, ‘Cruel to that ‘orse, Moorcroft.’

  ‘Aye. I expect the beast presents its own challenge to its master. The rider deals with it as best he knows how.’ Jonathan was not getting the expected rise out of his new friend.

  ‘He did take note of you then, Nat.’ He wanted his new hero to speak out.

  Nat didn’t hesitate, ‘I spoke out of turn, Johnny. I’m passing through and ‘tis not for me to offer the master advice on how he tends lands which are his. I should have held my peace.’ He saw the lad’s face fall as he dropped back from walking by Nat’s side and began to dream again of life as a soldier. ‘Come lads! Supper awaits and I, for one, could eat one of them big buggers!’ he tipped his head to the shire horses. At least they had supper to look forward to.

  Swilling off what muck they could and leaving their clogs at the kitchen door, the warm kitchen soon exuded smells of wholesome cooking and damp woollen cloth. Cook looked frazzled and Florence intercepted Nat almost as soon as he came in. ‘Holless has been here,’ she hissed. ‘Seems the master is less than happy with the progress in the Lee field. What happened out there?’

  ‘Nothing. Moorcroft came along and I suggested . . . ’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I backed down. Saw that I’d overstepped. It’s fine . . . ’

  ‘It’s not fine, Nat. Holless told Cook to make a simple broth and that each of us is to receive one ladle and bread . . . ’

  ‘Florrie, cease your chattering and come help me with this cauldron!’ Cook called. The woman looked distraught that the meal that she’d lovingly prepared was to be thrown to the pigs and was genuinely worried that these poor lads, who’d given their all in the fields, should be denied their proper sustenance. Florence tore herself away from Nat, and he felt the fire of many sets of narrowed eyes on him as they all heard that their expected supper was nothing more than a broth! They were to stand as they slurped it down in silence. Nat didn’t know what to say.

  Holless appeared, ‘The master suggests,’ the word was heavily emphasised, ‘that you would be better refreshed and enabled for a full day’s work on the morrow, were you all to retire to your beds early tonight. Rich food, and reflection about our proper place in God’s world, are not easy bedfellows. Supper is finished.’ The lads slunk away, clutching hunks of bread and glaring at Nat.

  Florence passed him and he offered her a small smile, hoping for some comfort but she glowered at him. ‘These people will go hungry tonight because you forgot your place, Nat Haslet.’ He heard her stomach rumble.

  By Sunday, Nat was becoming tired of the cold shoulder from everyone. No one began a conversation with him and if he asked a question, he got a terse reply. It was not helping them find out what Montebray’s secret was. It was the only day when he had an opportunity to speak to Florence and he had an idea to tell her on the walk back.

  The Hall’s church was actually rather lovely. Nat, who’d been in a few churches in his time, thought that it looked so fresh, that it was only as old as the Hall but, as they neared it, he reconsidered. The church of Emmanuel’s rounded doorway suggested that it was at least Norman. Over the porch, a much newer functioning stone sundial pronounced: Tempus Omnia Dabit (time will give everything) but Nat didn’t know Latin and wondered if Florence did. They’d separated as they came to the church itself and stood according to their sex.

  Master Moorcroft, would be seated in the high-backed pew at the front of the church in the choir, and she saw that the area was covered by a rug and the seats seemed to have the comfort of deep red cushions. The household had streamed in, in order of rank, with Cook leading the women and Holless the men, taking their places on either side of the aisle in respectful silence. Naturally, Florence and Nat were at the very back —Florence’s feet already ached after a busy morning and services could be lengthy.

  Once in, Florence glanced at Nat. He looked contrite with his cap clutched in his fist. Florence thought that it was time to forgive him as she knelt with the rest of the women, clasping her hands and offering what looked like a short prayer, with perfect virtue. Actually, she was regretting that this back row didn’t appear to have kneelers. She’d come to understand what housemaid’s knee actually meant.

  Nat caught her act of obeisance and smiled at the performance. She was a good actor! She looked quite angelic kneeling there. He was drawn by the soft notes of an organ playing Tallis music and he was quietly transfixed. Christ! He was hearing something extraordinary. No organ existed - in his time - older than 1660 and here was this modest pipe organ which had somehow survived the destructive enthusiasms of the rise of Puritanism. He wondered when it had been installed. Master Moorcroft, arrogant as he was, seemed most enlightened in employing both a minister and a reasonable organist – he winced a little at wrong notes. But it was remarkable and he looked quite devotional as he hid his head in his hands to hide his wonderment at it. Yes, the range seemed narrow, and he’d bet there were no pedals but it was beautiful in a reedy way and very old – though not as old as the church of course. He had to see it – soon, before he left here. Whoever was playing wasn’t too bad but it stopped abruptly and he heard, behind him, the organist clambering down from the loft ladder, straightening his surplus and readying himself to lead the Master of Montebray ceremonially down the aisle of the church, where the minister awaited nervously for him.

  Florence wanted to turn her head to the porch door but didn’t. Protocol suggested that she look straight ahead and wait for her Master to take his seat. She was curious to know what the Master of Montebray looked like. As he passed her, she caught the pleasing scent of a cologne of some sort wafting from him - a welcome change from the miasma of cabbage-like aromas which arose from everyone else in the church. She heard the swish of silk in his fine clothes. In the dim light of the church, she thought she saw the rich tints of deep emerald green for his short, unstiffened jacket and voluminous breeches, and the glint of a fine lace collar and cuffs. His hair, fell below his collar and was a golden blonde shining with cleanliness. His shoes had heels which clipped as he walked and he was carrying a short staff which he tapped ostentatiously on the flagstones as he progressed towards the choir, conscious of the display. Reaching the front pew, he handed his broad feathered hat to Holless who then was the only one who followed him to the choir pews – taking the pew behind his Master. A few seconds for Master Moorcroft to settle himself and his clothes and then he nodded graciously to the minister, who patiently stood waiting, for permission to begin the service, from the tall pulpit.

  Nat viewed the man with distaste. He ha
d shown himself to be cruel and petty and Nat would not give the man the satisfaction admiration. Moorcroft was master here and Nat would accept that for the sake of the others. After all, he was just passing through, no need to make life more difficult for the retainers here. He thought that Moorcroft enjoyed the drama of his entrance and rather gloried in his fine outfit, contrasting with the simple homespun of everyone else. He snorted quietly to himself and forced himself to forget Moorcroft and with a lifetime’s knowledge of Sunday services, concentrate on the strange liturgy. The prayers he expected but the sermon itself made the congregation wriggle with the invocation of the fires of hell and damnation. Nat thought that the minister was himself a little uncomfortable with the invective he was spouting, looking constantly for reassurance to his master, his eyes rarely leaving him. Holless looked smug and self-congratulatory and Nat saw who had provided the thrust of the text. Master Moorcroft stared sanctimoniously into the distance but occasionally nodded as if to consecrate the rant, feigning a chastened look at the warnings of sinfulness, and giving the minister great encouragement by his sincere nodding. Nat couldn’t help thinking of his father’s gentle sermons which admonished without threat or terror and reminded himself of his father’s commentary that, in the end, they would be judged on their deeds and not on their words. He’d give anything to sit through one of those services again.

  Towards the end of the service, when the minister was about to give the benediction and dismiss his congregation, he was halted by the peremptory raising of a single finger by Master Moorcroft and he quickly vacated the pulpit for the young lord of the manor to occupy. Florence and Nat could barely see his face at their distance but his voice was crystal clear, strong and resonant. She screwed up her eyes to see him better. She knew the portraits in Locksley, by heart and she was sure that she’d recognise this man from them. From this distance, there was nothing that jogged her memory.