‘Friends,’ there was some sniggering amongst the boys at this puritan address, which one stare from Holless stilled, ‘It has been brought to my attention that the strife of our warring cousins is drawing ever nearer to our peaceful idyll, and it falls to me today to bring you some very sad news.’ Moorcroft’s voice was now tender and baleful with this burden. ‘On my recent journey, I received an unwelcome missive that the three men who left Montebray to join for Parliament, never reached that army. Despite their somewhat dishonest departure, taken without conversation with me,’ he looked sad at this, ‘I was told that they were ambushed within ten miles of Lichfield and their lives taken by some scurrilous band of deserters!’
There was shock in the church. ‘It is not clear which body of outlaws undertook this terrible deed and I assure you that I am devoting time and effort to discovering them and bringing them to justice, but it does warn us, does it not, of the very grave and real dangers of leaving without the proper permissions.’ His eyes pleaded with the congregation. ‘I know the temptation to a young man – the promise of adventure and travel, and the recruiters offer shillings which all too often never appear.
‘You have seen the occasional renegade from these rag-taggle bands and you know by now that all is not as told to you.’ He changed his tack, ‘You all know that, were a lad to state to me that he had a strong desire to be a soldier, a consequence of his spiritual conviction, I would be reluctantly obliged to release him and would, indeed, aid his departure with papers which might secure him a good place.’ He was reasoning with them now, as a father to children, ‘However, consider, friends,’ no sniggering now, ‘it might be . . . prudent to consider what mortal dangers lie beyond our tranquil lands.’ He smiled at them to allow the point to sink in.
‘Now, as you know, we have not declared for Parliament – yet – in the prayerful hope that our good King Charles Stuart, might see the error of his actions and renounce his popish practices, casting off those around him who drip poison into his ear. He is, and remains, our sovereign Lord and we, his loyal servants, will serve him for as long as he embodies that spirit of England and English law within his crown. Let us hope that the day will not come when we must reconsider, my dear friends,’ and now he looked sadly resigned. The man was remarkably insightful, thought Florence. ‘So, again, I say to you young men, that should you wish to depart from our employ then you have only to make it known to Master Holless, and you shall be released with reluctant process.’ He offered a warm smile, first at Holless who had to force himself to shut his open mouth, and then at the congregation. Not a person stirred.
‘There is one other matter which I feel obliged to share with you today. I am told that we must be wary of strangers. My friends tell me that spies abound in the land – Hollanders who have no love for our realm. I ask you to be wary of any you encounter whose speech seems strange to you and men – or women – who do not know our customs.’ Both Florence and Nat felt sets of eyes burn into them. ‘Very well, then I shall now thank Pastor Jamieson for his stirring thoughts, sure in the knowledge that we may go about our business as chastened children of Christ this week to come.’ He raised an eyebrow at Holless’ prim face. Florence rather liked the wryness of his tone. Leaving the pulpit, Denzil took his hat from an abashed Holless and processed back up the aisle where, as he graciously nodded to either side, his loyal servants curtseyed or nodded a short bow of fealty to him. There was the slightest of pauses at the back of the church where he inclined his head a little, as if listening for Nat Haslet’s comment but continued, satisfied that there was none.
As he left the church he spoke loudly enough to be heard, to Holless. ‘I must say, I feel invigorated by that sermon and I am looking forward to my Sunday lunch. Holless, make sure that my loyal people are well fed today and a pipe of tobacco for the men!’ There was a general murmur of approval from the congregation proving that their master had been heard. Nat didn’t smoke.
Florence strained to see Denzil Moorcroft clearly, trying to combine what she saw with what she’d heard about him. She guessed he was late twenties and unquestionably attractive. He was, according to the servants (and there was surprisingly little gossip about him and even less interaction with him), unmarried and was not known to be betrothed. Occasionally, and well away from Holless’ hearing, some of the lads wondered if he liked the girls at all. He was wealthy – that much was obvious by the very clothes he wore. Perhaps he bought them on his frequent visits to London? The one thing that Cook had said was that he was interested in her recipes and inclined to the foreign flavours of London’s dishes, the implication being that they were indecently spicy! Florence thought of him as a cosmopolitan man, an educated man who might know something of the trees. At the very least, he might be able to recommend her skills to someone in London.
She made the decision to try and attract his attention. Nat was in no position to approach the man and so it was time that Florence contributed to their living here. She’d been over reliant on Nat, she thought, perhaps a little selfish to expect him to fend for her. After all, she was a capable woman - she just needed that to be seen by Master Moorcroft. Florence felt confident that he was a sympathetic person. Some part of her felt that he surely would know that she belonged here. As for any portrait that there might have been of him, she was sure that there wasn’t. She’d have remembered a man as striking as him.
Nat joined her as they left the church on their way to the roast. Cook had had a lamb butchered earlier in the week and Florence’s mouth was already watering so that thoughts of the broth episode were forgiven. She’d collected the mint for the sauce that morning and had been eyeing up the carcass in the cool meat room, imagining roast ‘leg of’, for days. As they walked, they looked at the mellow beauty of the churchyard, its gravestones softened with centuries of weather and lichen but with the carving on them still quite distinct. It was a surprisingly neat arrangement with a path winding away from the porch towards the lych gate, bordered by heavy yews. In fact, there were some even more imposing yews in the far corners of the churchyard, some of them looking quite ancient and with cleft, dry ruddy trunks. If only they were oaks, she thought.
‘What’d’yer think then?’ he asked trying to sound wryly amused.
‘About what?’
‘Our little Lord Fauntleroy!’ he hissed conspiratorially.
‘Yeah. Seemed nice.’ She seemed lost in thought.
‘Yeah? Looked a bit poncey to me,’ he whispered, a little surprised and disappointed by her reaction.
‘Pon . . . ?’
‘You know, bit wet, effete, soft,’ and even as he said it, Nat was beginning to feel that he was on shaky ground.
Her thoughts snapped back into focus. She was annoyed. Moorcroft had made a decent speech to them, she thought, trying to save some of these youths from being killed for a cause that they didn’t understand. ‘I see.’ The tone should have warned him. ‘And you base this insight on what? Clothes? Speech? His staff? Can you hear how ridiculous you sound! He looks like he’s supposed to look: the lord of this particular manor. Think about it: they all look well looked after,’ she meant the group of servants strolling back to the Hall. ‘Holless is creepy but he doesn’t beat anyone; the food’s good – very good actually and you make your ‘poncey’ judgement on one sight of the man in a church. Great Christian you are! Typical man!’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are! It’s pure prejudice . . . ’
‘No. No. I’m not Christian. Not anymore.’ It was the first time he’d said it.
‘Oh,’ she was surprised, ‘I thought . . . you seemed to be . . . ’
‘No. It was the music.’ It seemed to need more explanation, ‘I can’t seem to find . . . faith anymore.’ He whispered because here, this was blasphemy.
Florence knew enough to keep quiet. This was a significant moment for Nat; she knew that he’d drawn comfort from his beliefs.
‘What sort of ‘God’ is this cruel to p
eople? These people,’ and he gestured around him, ‘they ‘believe’ because they’ve had the fear of God put in them. It disgusts me, actually. They are terrified of the consequences of not believing. That’s not faith; it’s brain-washing.’
Florence kept to herself that this had always been her own view. ‘Oh. Oh, well, I’m sorry Nat. It must be hard to lose your faith.’ She meant it.
‘Not really. Bit of a relief.’ He managed to smile at her, ‘But we’ve bigger things to worry about, eh? What about you? Not ever a believer, I’m guessing.’
‘No. Never. Been to lots of churches and services though. School was totally C of E – twice on Sundays. All ridiculous – but I do know all of the hymns!’
‘Don’t sing them here!’ he looked genuinely alarmed.
She nodded sagely, ‘They might burn me for heresy?’
‘No. I’ve heard your voice!’
They both spluttered with laughter so that the group in front of them looked around curiously and Holless threw a stare at them from the front of the line. Sunday was not a day for laughter it seemed.
Florence enjoyed this side of Nat, the one who knew how to joke and live in the moment and wasn’t always plotting about ways to walk back into misery. She brushed her hand against his as they walked. It was time to share her plan with Nat. ‘I’m going to get myself noticed by Master Moorcroft,’ she announced. Before he could voice his objections, she continued, ‘We can hardly approach him, ask him what he knows about time travel and wait for him to tell us, can we?’
She had a point, he thought.
‘So, I’m going to get him to approach me.’
‘How? Florence, I wouldn’t . . . ’ she could see how shocked he looked.
‘No. Not that. I’m going to interest him in my talents!’ she beamed at Nat. ‘I’m going to let him find out that I’m an educated woman.’
‘An educated scullery maid?’
He could be so annoying. ‘We’re in the middle of a war. It shouldn’t be too hard to convince him that I’m from some gentle family torn asunder by the conflict. I’ve even invented a history for myself.’
‘Florence, it’s a risk. I really don’t think that Holless will let you get near him and if you did, what makes you think that he’d believe you? Think of the danger of even hinting at what we are! No. You can’t do it. Leave it to me.’
It was the very worst thing that he could have said; he saw it instantly. Florence Brock was not a woman to be told that it was best left to a man. He saw the flash in her eyes and heard the rasp of her voice as she tried not to be loud.
‘Leave it to you? You’ve already appeared on his radar as a trouble-maker. He punished the whole household because of your perceived challenge. How the hell do you think you’re going to get anything out of Denzil Moorcroft?’
He was petulant, ‘I just think, that there’s more going on here than we know. Why not take some time . . . ?’
‘Is that a joke! Time is our problem. I want to know if he knows anything that might help us to go home and I want to know now. Don’t you want to go back, Nat,’ she pleaded. ‘Don’t you want to find your real life again, somewhere that we aren’t risking our lives. Don’t you want to be together in a century where we aren’t threatened?’
He liked the fact that she’d talked about them being together. He did but he was convinced that Denzil Moorcroft would not help them. He thought the man arrogant, proud and spiteful and, if threatened, possibly dangerous.
They sat opposite one another at the long table, talking about everything that wasn’t their real life. They chatted comfortably about how the barley was ripening in Dean’s field and Florence was able to share her news that Cook had entrusted her with the milking of the cow and the butter churning. ‘That there,’ she indicated towards a bowl of the palest butter, ‘I did that!’ She beamed and leaned towards him whispering, ‘See. New skill! Pig-whisperer, washerwoman, kitchen skivvy, milk maid and butter churner!’
He spoke very quietly, ‘Good set of ‘O’ levels those.’ He saw another blank look on her face. ‘You know, aged 16 exams, certificates?’
‘Oh, GCSEs,’ she beamed and then her face fell, ‘We’re becoming part of this, aren’t we?’
Nat nodded, ‘It isn’t right for you – for either of us. Do it, Florence. Find out what you can from Denzil Moorcroft.’
18
A Word in Your Ear
‘Would you send Prudence to me?’ Denzil asked Holless in honeyed tones.
‘The girl will be at her supper, Denzil, mayhap wait until…’
‘I make that mistake too often, don’t I?’ he pursed his lips and shook his head. Holless was confused. ‘Did you believe that I was requesting something of you Derek?’ Holless looked surprised; he’d not heard that name for some time. ‘I blame myself. I couch these things in modern terms and forget to command. What I meant was fetch Prudence to me. Perhaps you have forgotten our relationship here?’
Holless was rebuked, ‘No, lad. I forget nothing. I will send for the girl.’
Prudence’s lips were white as Holless ushered her in. She hung her head and twisted her hands together. Holless was dismissed.
‘Oh, stop mewling, girl! You’ll not be warming my bed tonight. I want something else of you. Sit.’ He directed her to a stool beside the fireplace, opposite his armchair. ‘There is a new wench in the kitchen?’ Prudence nodded. ‘Tell me what you know of her.’
‘Nothing, Master Moorcroft. She says little . . .’
Denzil shot up, striking Prudence across the face with the back of his hand and knocking her to the floor. His signet ring left a small cut on her cheekbone and she emitted a cry.
‘Of course, you know. Tell me every detail. Leave nothing out.’ Prudence’s hand went to her face but she gritted her teeth and rose to her feet. This time, her Master did not tell her to sit.
‘She came last week – with her brother. Their name is Haslet, sir. Cook puts her to work in the kitchen – although it seems that she has few skills. Cook had to show her how to skin a rabbit.’ Denzil’s attention was captured by this. Prudence wiped her bloodied fingers on her apron. Her voice was quiet. ‘Her Christian name is Florence and her brother is Nat,’ she paused, unwilling to continue.
Denzil grabbed her breast, pulling it from her bodice and squeezed hard. ‘Do you need further persuasion, wench? I may well change my mind concerning the bed-warming. I require to learn what you know – or suspect of this . . . Florence. Speak!’
Prudence winced but did not pull away. Moorcroft would not be satisfied, she saw, until he possessed some titbit of information that seemed secret. She had to say something. ‘Some think that they are not brother and sister at all, but say that to appear respectable. He looks at her, sir, in a way that is not that of a brother.’ It was common gossip amongst the servants, she was betraying no secret there.
‘Does he?’ Denzil purred. ‘Continue.’
‘They do speak strange. You told us of Hollanders, master, there is talk that they might be such.’ Holless himself had cocked his head in surprise at their strange speech. She was trying so hard to be true to her new friend, telling Moorcroft only what was already known.
‘They are not. You may let this be known.’ It did not suit his purposes for talk of treason to fester - yet. She fell silent and Denzil stared at her as she lowered her eyes, hoping that her ordeal was over. ‘No. You have given me nothing that is not already known. There is something that you hide from me. Speak or I will see to it that your Ethan suffers. You know how easy it would be to call him out as a thief, girl. Think carefully about your next smidgeon of information.’
Prudence drew in her breath, weighing up the options. Ethan mattered more. She took a deep breath, ‘ She has a mark on her,’ Pru whispered, afraid of hearing herself say the words. In a rush, she added, ‘She tells me that it is but a custom in her forester family. I think nothing of it, Sir, for it would not have even been visible but for the shortness of her hair.’ Prud
ence watched the interest in his face grow, regretting every word.
‘Describe it,’ he snapped.
‘A small acorn, drawn on with ink, behind her left ear. Certainly, it is nothing but a pretty fancy,’ she added hopefully. Denzil struck her again.
‘You, will say nothing. Am I plain with you, Prudence Southey? Any word from you of our talk here and I will call you out as witch and have you tried. For sure, you will burn. Sit there in silence for an hour, so that all will think that you have been of . . . service to me and then you will leave.’
Tears fell from her eyes as she began carefully to dress herself. Without looking up, Denzil’s cruel voice said, ‘Leave the breast visible. It pleasures me.’ Her master’s attentions were brutal and shaming. Had she not been quite sure that he would inflict great harm upon her sweetheart, she would have died of shame but this service to Denzil Moorcroft protected Ethan. One day, she would kill Master Moorcroft and be happy to hang for it.
19
Cider with Florence
Florence longed to see Nat at the end of the long day. Despite the bustle of the kitchen, she kept an eye on the yard, waiting for the first sight of his black locks inches above the others, marking him out. His carved features had softened with thick stubble, revealing eyes that crinkled into a smile as he made his way to the well to rinse off the dust and muck of the field. He was always as bone tired as she but they sat companionably at the table even if they couldn’t summon up the energy to say much. Waiting for everyone to be busy in talk, he leaned towards her. ‘Don’t you think it would be good to find some time to talk some more about . . . what we are and what we’re going to do? Don’t you miss that?’
‘Yeah. I do. I’m so done in by the end of the day that I almost forget and then then it catches me by surprise when my old life comes back to me. You know, it’s starting to seem like this has always been me. It’s too easy to let it go isn’t it?’ she looked pained but he found a glimmer of hope that she hadn’t forgotten, that she wanted to keep the memories alive, that she might want to leave here.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 19