She came up behind the woman, looking for a way to apologise.
‘Yes, there’s learning in Oxford, Florrie and there’s danger as well for them that is not worldly wise. In any case, it’s as well you were away before damage is done.’
Florence frowned at her, puzzled.
‘‘Tis nothing. You must needs keep your man close – in Oxford. Many a girl might take a shine to that one.’ The cook continued to turn the spit energetically and smiled at her. Florence glowed with the thought that Nat was hers. Perhaps Cook thought that Oxford was a hot-bed of seduction? She smiled to herself at the provincial nature of the woman and packed the supplies with enthusiasm. Nat only had eyes for her.
Nat wasn’t sure how Holless would react but he braved the man, telling him that it was likely that before the end of the month, he and his sister would be on their way. The sullen steward said nothing at all except, ‘You’ll be paid no more than that which you work and you’ll leave all but the clothes on your back. Your tools you may take with you.’
‘Aye, I will, seeing as that they are my tools to take,’ replied Nat, even happier to think of leaving here.
Jonathan had overheard him. He took Nat aside and asked if he could go with them.
‘You mean to find an army?’ Nat knew the answer.
‘I do. I’ve a mind to sign for His Majesty!’ The lad was flushed with the pride of his decision.
‘No Johnny, lad. No. Stay. This war is not for you. The generals will put you before the cannons and you will die, blown to bits. I’ve seen it before.’ He had. In a land as far away as it could have been from here. He watched Jonathan’s face crumble with the disappointment and saw the way it would go. ‘Make me just one promise: if you take leave of your wits and you leave to fight, join for Parliament. Will you promise me that?’ At least he could point him towards the winning side.
Jonathan spat on the ground and stormed away.
That evening, Florence was already waiting for Nat behind the barn, excited about the prospect of their new adventure. When he didn’t appear, she meandered back into the yard to see where he was and saw him standing with his back to her, in the centre of the yard. For a moment, she didn’t comprehend why he had stopped there but as he turned a little, Florence saw that he was kissing Martha Copley – an older girl of 18 or so. She watched his familiar arms go around the girl and then hold her away from him gently. He leaned his head towards her and spoke and she turned her face to his and kissed him again. Florence felt sick. Before he could see her, she slipped back around the corner of the barn, torn between whether to wait for him or just leave.
Moments later, he found her, sitting on a barrel. He smiled, walked up to her, took her in his arms and kissed her. She barely responded.
‘What’s up?’
Florence, still in shock, made a decision. ‘Just been a long day.’ He kissed her again and she could taste Martha.
Nat relaxed, ‘Yeah. It has. Still, just two days to go and we’re away from here! No more sneaking around, eh?’
Sneaking around! Who was this man? Was he going to tell her that there’d been some mistake? But what mistake could that have been? And then she remembered that he’d been strange ever since they’d decided to leave. Had she been so mistaken about what they were to one another?
‘You missed me today then?’ It was something that she’d taken to asking him and had become a bit of a lovers’ joke between them except that now the pieces tumbled into place. This was why Cook was preventing her from taking the food to the fields. This was what she’d been warning about - not bloody Oxford! Cook knew that there was something about Martha. God! They all knew. Florence was hollow and sick.
‘Oh, yes!’ he laughed, ‘I have definitely missed you,’ and he pulled her in to him.
She could smell the girl there too. Martha fed the chickens and their stale aroma was very familiar. She pulled away from him. ‘It really has been a long day, Nat. I think I’ll have an early night. Sleep well.’ She extricated herself from his embrace and started to leave.
Nat immediately knew that she’d seen. Shit! She must have seen the girl throw herself at him before he’d had a chance to react. Damn! What had got in to that Martha! She’d been harassing him all week, at every opportunity she’d tried to snatch a kiss or a touch. It had started almost as a joke, with her trying to catch him alone but had stopped being funny when she started doing it in the full view of the other lads and girls. He’d laughed it off as they looked oddly at him, Pru frowning. They were getting the wrong end of the stick and it had to stop. Tonight, he’d been clear with the kid. He had no interest in her and she had to stop it but Martha had threatened him.
‘You think to cast me off then Nat Haslet!’
‘I’m not casting you off, Martha. I have given you no cause at all to think me interested in you. You must leave me alone…’ he scowled at her, his fingers digging a little too firmly into her arms.
‘Saving your affections for your sister, are you then?’ she taunted. ‘‘Tis a very wicked sin is that. Holless might well bring you before the Magistrate for that coupling.’
‘You know damn well that Florence is not my sister. Don’t threaten me girl.’ He shook her a little but it didn’t deter her.
‘Aye, well, ‘tis equally a sin. She is not your wife! We all know that you have had carnal knowledge of the stuck-up trollop. Be nice to me or I may testify against you. ‘Twould not go well for you, I think.’ Nat re-evaluated the girl; she was sharp. Two days and they would be gone but in that time, he dared not offend Martha to the point where her spite might cause them both real problems.
And then tonight. It was almost as though Martha had appeared at the exact moment he was making his way to Florence. She’d ambushed him. What had Florence seen? Had Pru said something? The girl had made it look like he and she . . .
‘Wait! Florence, whatever you think you saw, it wasn’t that,’ he held her arm and she shook his hand off.
‘Wasn’t what?’ she said, her voice cold with fear.
‘Martha, she’s a bit . . . obsessed with me.’
The arrogance of the man, Florence thought, hating the sound of the girl’s name on his lips.
‘She keeps . . . throwing herself at me,’ he sighed heavily hearing how unconvincing he sounded. ‘I’ve told her to stop, explained that I’m not interested . . . ’
‘Oh, yes. I saw you explaining. What did you call me ‘Fool’? You’re right. I am. Everyone knows, don’t they? I’ve just not been asking the right questions. I’m a fucking idiot and you’re a fucking bastard, Nat Haslet.’
‘No. You’ve got it wrong. She just . . .’ his eyes were wide with pleading.
‘You mean that no one else knew about it?’
‘They probably did but I . . .’
‘Couldn’t be bothered to tell me about it. Couldn’t have said, there’s this girl harassing me?’
‘There wasn’t a chance! I was going to. There’s nothing . . .’
‘Too fucking right! There’s nothing. Were you waiting to get to know me a little better? Waiting for the right moment?’
‘Hey, just a minute! I don’t work like that. I told you, this isn’t just casual for me. It means something. That silly girl . . .’
‘Martha,’ Florence simpered.
‘That silly girl,’ he reiterated, ‘is nothing. You are everything.’
Florence probably believed him but with the smell of the girl still hanging on him, she was angry. Everyone knew about him and the little slut. Cook had tried to warn her and even Pru had given her strange looks. No. She’d simply not been asking the right questions. ‘And just now, Nat? Just now, when you had the chance to make it plain to her, why did I see you whispering in her ear? Why couldn’t you have told me just now?’
He wanted more than anything to rewind the moment and to get it right this time. Florence had a point; he should have told her from the outset, laughed about it with her but now, she took his silence as c
onfirmation of his guilt. ‘I . . . she . . . was blackmailing me.’
‘Really!’
‘She said that she’d tell you that I’d . . . fucked her,’ he confessed. ‘She’d call us out for incest.’
‘Take your hands off me. Pathetic,’ she hissed and walked away.
Badly done Nat, badly done. He went to his own bed after scanning the yard to check that the idiot girl Martha wasn’t there. All he needed was to find some time to explain it to Florence. She’d see what had happened and they could laugh about it on the road to Oxford. Once he’d explained it all to her, she’d understand.
Florence nauseous with the pain of betrayal, was finding it hard to breathe and honestly thought that her supper might reappear. She was surprised; she’d no idea that such hurt could cause physical pain. In her simple straw bed, she replayed the scene that she’d watched. Nat hadn’t wanted that embrace or kiss there, then, but it wasn’t entirely a shock to him. He knew this girl and knew what she was doing. He was tender with her, familiar. If there was nothing to it, surely, he’d have simply told her about it - he’d had plenty of chances. She’d noticed his quietness and thought that he was simply planning the journey, being thoughtful about what came next. What if it had been something else? Did he have doubts about being with her, now that she’d agreed to go with him? Was he waiting for her to notice that something was wrong? She hadn’t asked the right question, had she? She saw it now. What a fool she was! After all, he’d lived here for almost a year before she arrived, he’d made his way he on his own – without baggage. He came from decades apart from her; he’d lived as a soldier, relying on only himself. Was he having second thoughts? He’d divorced. Didn’t he like . . . ties? Instinct said that he cared for her but she felt foolish for not seeing what was in front of her eyes. Who had she become that being bound to someone was so important to her? The straw pallet become wet with her tears.
It was a very long night. Sleep was impossible as she worked through the implications of what had happened. She had been taken across time and in that bizarre moment her life had changed for ever and she’d sunk in to a pit of hopelessness. Then Nat. Her hero, had come back for her, the one who would help her to build a life here – with him. It had been the one saving grace about all of this madness and now . . . Her world had turned upside down again and she was full of uncertainty. And so, somewhere just as the first rays of sunlight broke the dark sky, Florence made the decision to accelerate the Moorcroft plan.
Holless slapped Martha Copley’s face, which surprised her because she thought that he would have been pleased. Then he told her that Cook had a small satchel for her in the kitchen and that she was expected as housemaid to the Bletchley Family in Little Ashton, some twenty miles away. She was to depart at first light and he gave her a small purse to see her on her way. When she began to protest, he said, ‘Think yourself fortunate girl that you will have such a position. A wench such as you, is not worthy of it and we are well shot of you. Not another word or I shall have you brought up before the magistrate who will probably whip you when he learns of your sinful heats.’
Martha crumpled. She’d been told that if she seduced Nat Haslet, so that the upstart Florence was to see, she’d be well rewarded. She was to tell no one that this had been arranged and that the Master himself would see to her elevation in position. Now, she’d been banished to the kitchen for the rest of the night and was to leave at first light, speaking to no one.
Her cheek was still stinging when Cook found her, but she offered no salve to Martha, just a look of contempt. Holless spoke, ‘See to it that she has sufficient for her journey. Five days should do it. She is to speak with no one tonight and you will stay with her until she leaves at dawn. Is that understood, Cook?’
‘It is understood, Master Holless.’
He paused momentarily at her withering stare, swallowing an explanation, but the moment passed and Holless glided out of the room leaving the two women together. ‘Cook, I did not . . .’ Martha began to whimper.
‘No, you did not, did you? Be silent girl. I have no comfort to offer the likes of you.’
At breakfast, as the men came in for their meal, Holless was waiting.
‘You three,’ he indicated, pointing at Jonathan and Nat, ‘to me.’ They grabbed what breakfast they could and followed him to the stable. ‘The Master has an errand for you - in Wolverhampton. Go to this address,’ he thrust a piece of paper into Nat’s hand and smirked as he saw him read it. ‘There is a locksmith there and you are to collect a fine lock which he has crafted. Take great care of it. Master Moorcroft has paid good gold. Any loss will be taken out of your wages,’ Nat huffed at that.
They nodded and turned back to the kitchen. ‘No need to fill your lazy bellies! There are supplies packed by the door and blankets for your lazy bones. You should rejoice in Master Moorcroft’s tender care of you for sure, it is not deserved.’
Nat turned back anyway, ‘And you Sirrah, did I not tell you to be gone?’
‘One moment Steward . . . please,’ it hurt him to utter it. ‘I need one word with . . .’
‘Your sister?’ Nat was silent. ‘She’s not in the house.’ Now Nat was alarmed. ‘She is on an errand with Prudence to fetch the best linens back from Mother Cusworth’s laundry and was gone at first light.’ Holless was smirking, revealing his teeth in a rictus grin.
Nat hovered for a moment, seeing how the land lay. He was being prevented from speaking to Florence for reasons which he didn’t understand beyond pure spite. ‘No matter. It was only to say goodbye. It is of no consequence,’ he smiled at the Steward. ‘Come Johnny. Let’s make shift to Wolverhampton – which I have not seen in the whole of my life. Perhaps the streets are paved with gold! It will be an adventure.’ He knew that Florence would be here when he returned and then all would be well.
23
First Contact
Across from Denzil’s perfect knot garden, by the well, a slender girl was wrestling with two fat chickens that were instinctively resisting her attentions. She’d managed to take one of the birds by a scrawny leg and the other by the neck and both were squawking mightily as they attempted to escape their fate. The girl, though painfully inept, was at least determined, he thought, and was far too focused to sense that he observed her. Holless was the usual observer of servants at the Hall, secretly ascertaining their true character, discovering their weaknesses. Denzil merely took advantage of the insights, but he was already aware of this girl and watched her himself from the shadow of the chamber casement.
Certainly, if Cook espied this wench, she would receive a sharp clout around the ear for her clumsy handling of the task. ‘Twas well know that frightened chickens made tough eating. The girl, with her heavy, shoulder length brown hair and unusually pale complexion, had a skin which was as yet unblemished by the familiar marks of disease. Yet again, Denzil noted the teeth. It was always the teeth. He saw her ill-fitting dress and how her immodest breasts threatened to free themselves from her bodice as she vigorously wrestled the fowl, and he smiled with pleasure. The sun streamed down on her from low over the trees and backlit her shape as she battled with the recalcitrant chickens. What really entranced him was that, despite the struggle, she was enjoying herself. He was too far away to hear her exact words but the tone which floated through the breeze to him, was enticing.
Florence chided the chicks through gritted teeth, ‘Look. I know it’s tough but it’s nature, you know? You’re chickens and we need dinner. Give in gracefully will you!’ Suddenly she got a firm grip on one chicken and shoved it under her arm, where she held it firmly, her elbow pressed hard into it like a bagpipe sack. Its partner was thus grasped by both hands and with a swift and entirely unexpected strength, she wrung the neck of the bird and dropped it at her feet. Her success seemed to surprise her and the second bird fell swiftly afterwards. She paused to adjust her dress and blew off stray feathers with a smug satisfaction. ‘Sorry chicks but nature’s red in tooth and claw and all that,�
� she chirruped - and roast chicken is my favourite.’
Denzil was quite bewitched. She was small and lithe, healthy and strong and he realised that he admired her sense of purpose and determination. Her tongue was as strange as he’d grown to expect but he knew it as English. Denzil thought that it might not be too difficult for Holless to tutor the girl as to what was in her best interest where the requests of the master were concerned. He listened a little longer as the girl started to pluck the chickens, singing quietly to herself.
‘Blackbird singing in the dead of night . . . take these broken wings . . . all my life . . . waiting for this moment . . . arrive . . . ’ She amused herself.
He thought that it was a pretty if not a somewhat perverse ditty, given the current task, and not one that he’d heard before, with its unusual cadences. The girl’s fingers were nimble as she tossed the plucked feathers to the wind, some of them blowing back and covering her in down which she had to spit away or blow from her. She paused to rub her aching wrists and reached into her apron, bringing out a fold of thick paper which he recognised as his own stolen stock. How interesting that she should risk so much for paper. And then she drew a stub of charcoal, and smoothing out the sheet she began to write. She began to write! This kitchen maid, chicken butcher, could write. Of course, she could. Holless had not come close to knowing the full extent of her talents it seemed. She’d paused, looking around her to ensure that she’d not been seen. He wondered why it wouldn’t have occurred to her to look up to the casement window where he stood. Seemingly content, she replaced the paper and charcoal in her apron, picked up the plucked chickens and sauntered back towards the kitchen door with her prizes.
Denzil waited for her to leave, and licked his dry lips. He didn’t know which he wanted more: the girl or to have sight of what she’d written! No reason why he couldn’t have both. He spoke to Holless, after the delicious roast chicken, that evening. ‘I think that it is time to meet the girl Florence.’ His voice was impossibly casual.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 23