Not only was Nat aching with the hurt of the distance between them, but he was completely mystified. For the life of him, he could not understand why Florence was making long term plans for here. Holless was a creep, and Moorcroft was an arrogant prick but the truth was that the only clues they’d had about what had happened to them, led to Montebray. He felt the smooth weight of the Swiss Army Knife in his jacket and felt the link to his future was close. As much as he wanted to leave, to strike out on their own and get some real resources, he knew that Florence was right. Somehow, they would have to question Denzil Moorcroft and as he began to consider the options, he indulged himself in a vision of beating Moorcroft to a pulp until he confessed whatever he knew. Nah! Unlikely to be helpful. It was probably down to Florrie’s more subtle methods that they’d find any answers.
Whatever their future was, he’d look after her. Hauling coal! That wasn’t what he’d meant and she knew it. His offer of protection was very real. No one would touch her while he was around. Perhaps it was the marriage thing then. She’d said that in her time, people didn’t feel the same pressure to get married. That was OK with him as well but it was a requirement here so they’d have to pretend. And then the doubt hit him. Perhaps it was that she just didn’t want to tie herself to him! Every time he saw her, he wanted to pull her into him, smell the butter in her hair and convince her that he was all she’d ever need.
Every time Florence saw Nat, she wanted him to vow that he’d never leave her.
20
A Box of Delight
Ezra Holless slid out of the shadows of the courtyard and intercepted Nat, while he was harnessing the horse. Nat jumped at the voice behind him, ‘Are your carpentry skills sufficient to make a door for a fine cabinet?’ Holless rasped.
The horse became agitated and Nat steadied him. ‘Aye, Sir, they are but plain skills for my carving is limited, but I can fashion a simple door where need be and make it fit well.’
‘Then that will have to be enough. Collect your tools and follow me.’ Holless never paused to wait and so Nat ran for his tool bag and jogged towards Holless who was already entering the splendour of the main house. The steward strode silently with Nat trying to adjust his eyes to the dimness after the bright sunshine, and he was struck by the fine furnishings. Strange how quickly you forget, he thought. He was trying to absorb it all, so that when Holless suddenly halted, there was a moment’s farce as Nat collided with him. The steward jolted slightly and turned, unamused. Nat tried not to be. ‘Apologies, master,’ he said, making heroic efforts not to allow his bottom lip to quiver.
‘Hmph! This,’ began Holless, in his most reverend voice, ‘is the Master’s chamber.’ He paused for effect and Nat fathomed that he was supposed to look awed. He tried. ‘Upon entering, you will touch nothing and you will complete the given task to the best of your limited skill - and with haste. Come,’ and he unlocked the heavy door with Nat feeling that he ought to try to step in Holless’ footsteps as a footprint out of place might result in mud on the thick rug but this time, he kept his eye on the man’s back. They stopped in front of a cabinet to the side of the window. It was quite beautiful, raised high on carved twisted barley legs with a solid cabinet at eye level, the central door ajar and severely cracked.
‘Well?’ asked Holless.
‘Aye, it’s a fine piece,’ responded Nat, not trying to be an idiot.
‘Are you able to repair the door, dolt!’ Nat tentatively stepped around the unmoving Holless and examined the door. As he tried to push it in, the fragile wood gave a final snap and he was left holding one piece as the other half dropped to the floor. There was silence which Nat thought best to fill speedily.
‘Ah, ‘tis a great shame master. The wood has at some stage taken on moisture and then, with the heat of the fire and the sun through the window, it has shrunk again and it has broken, thus.’ He wanted to talk about expansion, about shrinkage and warping – even about the effects of central heating - but he was careful of his words around Holless.
‘I see that, fool!’ Holless considered. ‘Tell me true, are you able to fashion a replacement until such time as I can hire a worthier craftsman?’
Nat wasn’t offended at the intended insult. ‘Aye, master but it will be a plain piece.’
‘Of course, it will! I did not expect you to be able to produce a refined piece such as this.’ He was assertive now, ‘It must lock and fit securely. I shall send for locks to be made as soon as you have fitted a door. Make it look presentable, mind and there’s extra ale for you at supper.’ He stopped and Nat waited. ‘Well? Begin!’
Nat collected the broken door pieces. ‘Aye, master. I shall use the oak planks in the yard which have been planed but I shall need a smith to make a hinge if it is to be secure. A leather fastening…’ Holless was now convinced that he at least knew something about carpentry.
‘I have no interest in your fussing, man. Just ensure that the door is as secure as I need, and that it is completed quickly. You have no other labour until this is done. Do what is needed.’ He marched Nat back down stairs and shooed him towards the work sheds.
In truth, Nat was pleased to be doing something more skilful than labouring. He liked the companionship of the lads and he really enjoyed the fresh air and the labour, but it didn’t exercise any part of his mind. He located a piece of seasoned oak that would do the job and etched out a rough outline, using his broken template, deciding that it would be easier to plane the cut than to attempt to saw it. Quite quickly he was ready to test the new door. It was woefully plain against the fine carving, except for a chamfered edge which was not entirely crudely made, he thought.
He turned back towards the house, trying to find Holless so that he might be let back up to the chamber to test the fit but he was busy with some issue around the vermin plaguing Cook’s larder, and looking in all truth like he was getting the worse of the exchange. Nat attracted his attention by waving the new door at him and was about to ask if he could be escorted upstairs when Holless’ arm was grabbed by Cook who was quite insistent that he follow her to the pantry where the rats were at this very moment feasting. She could hear them! Holless had no choice, ‘You, girl! Go with your brother to the Master’s bedroom and stay with him whilst he fits the door! If there is any mess or damage, you’ll find a whipping from me and no supper!’ And he was whisked away to view the rat-fest. Was Nat imagining Cook glancing back at Florence and tipping her the slightest of winks?
Florence wiped her hands on her apron for a long time as they walked. They’d become strangers again but it wasn’t what she wanted. ‘Better than field work?’ she prompted kindly.
‘Yeah. Much. Nice to do something that you’re good at.’ He immediately regretted it. ‘Sorry. Still tough in the kitchen?’ He worried about her.
‘Cook’s OK as long as you don’t slack. It’s the laundry . . .’ she sighed. ‘Always.’
Florence thought that she could hear his thinking: a few suds, wet clothes, hanging out. ‘Forget it! Glad that one of us gets to do something creative.’
Nat had made a bad start. How could he rescue this? ‘Did you ever listen to ‘Hitchhiker’s Guide? On the Radio?’
She shook her head, ‘Saw the film - years ago.’
Of course she had. Remember when she’s from, he thought. ‘Do you recall Marvin, the Paranoid Android?’ Brain the size of a planet . . . and I’m doing this!
She laughed, smiling at him and there was warmth again. Then her face fell. ‘Except here, I’ll never be doing anything better than this, will I?’
‘Not if you stay,’ he braved. The point was well made. At least he’d got her thinking.
At the top of the stairs, Florence paused. ‘Which door? I’ve never been up here. Not allowed.’ As they talked, she felt nervous at speaking in her natural voice and at the same time relaxed by the natural cadences. It was constant concentration to speak in the style of the century.
Nat led the way, opening the door for her to step in
. She moved from monochrome to technicolour: the scene in the Wizard of Oz. ‘Oh God!’ she gasped. ‘It’s beautiful!’
Nat saw the sunshine illuminate her and saw how grubby she’d become. The only thing that shone about her was her teeth! He wanted better for her.
‘Look at those hangings!’ she gasped, reaching out a hand to touch them and then pulling it back when she thought of Holless’ warning. Her eyes widened, ‘And the bed!’ Florence ached to clamber on to it. She longed for what she once had taken for granted, imagining the deep mattress and actual pillows. And then she was very still as she saw the cabinet. ‘Nat, I know this. It’s the Dutch Cabinet from the dining room. I remember it.’ Florence stepped towards it and dared to touch it, running the tips of her fingers along its polished top and down the deep, rich carvings. ‘Oh God. Let me see the door.’ He showed her the broken pieces of the old door and then the new plain piece he was fashioning. ‘Nat, that’s it. It’s the door that no one understood. The experts all said it was an anomaly – that it was done much later than the cabinet itself and that it had a strange skill about it. I grew up with your door!’
Nat didn’t know what to do, she seemed transported, so he carried on with the fitting of the door whilst Florence stood and breathed in the room. If he’d expected tears, he was surprised by the fury he saw there.
‘Why? Who’s done this to us? I just can’t believe that I’m here and that it’s just some cosmic fucking joke. This is my home and I’m a fucking scullery maid!’
He didn’t have any answers.
She watched him work, impressed by his attention to the details, smoothing and shaving the wood until the fit was perfect. He’d even brought a piece of sacking to collect the shavings. He was enjoying it.
‘Wonder what this is?’
She shifted slightly to see what he meant. Behind a panel that he’d had to remove to refit the door, was a thick square lump of a door, not more than twenty by fifteen centimetres. It was unremarkable in itself but Nat pointed to the extraordinary locks. There were three of them on such a tiny aperture. He looked confused. ‘Does this look odd to you?’
She had an insight. ‘It’s like a small safe – you know, the ones that you’d get in hotel rooms. Small and strong and you can never remember the combination. I don’t remember it.’
‘Yeah. The locks . . . There’s something . . .’
‘Nat, you should hurry. If Holless comes back . . .’
He nodded at her. He actually wanted the bloody man to approve of this work. Nat much preferred this to labouring in the fields.
Finally, he finished with the fitting, resting it in the hole, until the hinges could be attached. He smiled at Florence and took his smallest chisel. On the hinge edge, where it would never be seen unless a repair was needed, he etched: Nat & Florence 1987/2020 - 1642. ‘Do you remember anything about this?’
Florence shook her head smiling, ‘It’ll cause some questions if they ever repair it. Thank you, Nat.’ They left the room, shutting the door quietly behind them.
‘Have you ever thought,’ he mused, ‘if you wanted to send a message into the future, what would be the best way?’
Florence paused. ‘A note in a book?’
‘Well, yes, if it was a significant document that you knew would be saved and stored somewhere. But paper’s quite scarce and how would peasants like us ensure that it survived? Anyone that we left it with would know what was on it and that just wouldn’t work. You’d have to think of an organisation that would pass your message on in the future.’
Florence nodded in agreement. ‘Something like the church – or these watchers? Something written on vellum?’
‘Maybe but it’s expensive and hard to get hold of. Would the church pass it on? I doubt it. It’d create havoc with notions of predestination. No. You’d need something that will survive into the future – like wood or stone. Stone’s good, but again, it would have to be in an obvious place for it to be read. No guarantee that if it was buried it would ever be found. Wood though . . . Wood survives for centuries and it’s in homes and buildings. Think of all of those hidden beams in great cathedrals which are covered in graffiti or makers’ marks - the trusses in old buildings, preserved in attics. What if we could send something to the future that we know would be found?’
‘A message! About us? Where?’ she was excited at the thought.
‘Well, we know that this house – your house – survives. Not all intact and with some new building. Think. What stays the same? Is there a bit which is never changed?’
Florence’s eyes lit up. ‘There is somewhere actually. But I don’t know where the entrance is. There’s an oubliette – a deep dungeon – like a well. In my time, it was covered with toughened glass. We kept saying that we’d get it investigated but the money was never there. If there was another entrance to it, we never found it.’
Nat was intrigued. ‘Where?’
‘It’s visible from the wine cellar. It was found by my great-grandparents but they didn’t encourage anyone to see it. They always thought that it was rather sinister. Gran fancied herself as a bit of a medium and said that she heard ghosts down there.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me. Oubliettes were a particularly cruel method of imprisonment. They only had a trap-door entrance so that once the prisoner was let down there on a rope, they could be practically forgotten about – as the name says.’
‘Not likely that we can leave a message carved on stones down there.’
‘No. Not unless one of us fancies being let down into it,’ they both shivered. ‘In any case we know that it wasn’t explored even in 2020.’
Florence recovered enough to add, ‘Even if we could send a message, what would we say? Who could possibly read it and take it seriously? And even if someone did, what difference would it make to us? We’re lost here and no one can help us ever. How would they reach us? It would just be an SOS with no chance of rescue. We’re on our own – except perhaps for these watchers.’
Every hope that Nat tried to offer, was quashed by her despair. He looked around, checking that they were unseen and touched her cheek. She felt the callouses of his palm. ‘Florence, we can do this. Together. I know that we can make a life that’s worth living here – for both of us.’ She searched his face for the truth of it and he thought that she was about to speak when a voice floated up from the hall below and Nat drew his hand away hurriedly.
‘There is no reason for you to loiter there. Get below!’ As usual, Holless had loitered unseen. They scuttled away down the stairs, laughing, glad to have had the chance to repair the door – and the hurt that had slipped between them.
Florence thought all evening about what Nat had said and was tormented. Was it so wrong to want something for herself that was more than just his wife? She balanced it against her strong desire to be with him, to stay at his side, laugh at his jokes. She worried that he was simply an anchor to her past - or was it her future? He deserved better than that. She would set the problem aside for tonight, enjoy Nat’s company at dinner and eat Cook’s mutton stew. His touch on her cheek had broken the ice between them and he’d started her thinking: a message to the future. Something written in the wood - and wood, she knew about. She thought of the graffiti carved into the old trees. Most were simple hearts with initials, pierced by an arrow but arborglyphs were a world-wide phenomenon and found on trees hundreds of years old. Seems that humans were attracted to leaving their marks on eternity and those trees spanned an eternity.
Not for the first time, Florence regretted the demise of her smart phone. In the early days, it had been a physical loss that she grieved over. Sometimes she played a game with herself trying to list how many ways she might have used it in one day. Seventy-three was her highest score. At this moment she missed her Woodlands Trust App that listed all of the significant trees and gave their map co-ordinates and directions to them. She longed for Google Earth and often thought how quickly she could have looked up the details of the Civil
War. All gone. But her learned knowledge remained and for that she was thankful. She wondered whether anyone would ever find the pieces of it buried beneath the forest floor. Probably not.
There was no shortage of volunteers to help in the sapling planting programme in Sherwood forest. They gave up their weekends and bank holidays with dedicated regularity. One of these was a young woman called Winifred Joshua – a notable face, in that she was Barbadian – on some sort of student exchange programme with Kew Gardens it seemed. Give the girl credit, she was reliable. Never missed a date, planting saplings. She was very thorough as well. The holes that she dug were often deep - even though the supervisor reminded her that they didn’t have to be. Winifred took no notice simply saying, ‘I want to make sure that my little tree survive long into the future.’
On a breezy Sunday afternoon in October 1962 Winifred was several saplings behind her comrades and had dropped back a little from their advance through the scrub land. She struck gold. A small piece of black smooth plastic was revealed at the bottom of the hole and Winifred tossed aside the small tree and started to widen the hollow. Yes. A cracked piece of glass was turned up and a rusted, dirt encrusted piece of metal in a casing, which Winifred didn’t recognise but acknowledged nonetheless. This was surely what she’d been sent to find. She pocketed the strange items, planted the final sapling and left the site. The group didn’t see her again but the Taxane Enclave was grateful for the pieces which she’d discovered. They sent them through to the Futures Chapter as swiftly as their curiosity would allow. They could not resist speculation about what these electronics might be.
What happened to Florence’s smart phone after that, no one knew outside of the Futures Chapter.
21
Scabs
Denzil Moorcroft was not a man to forgive a perceived slight easily and this new man had offended him. It was the itch of a scab, insistent on being picked even as it healed, and the thought of Haslet prickled at Denzil until he needed to scratch.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 21