Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles

by Jayne Hackett

  With both trepidation and the burgeoning of embryonic hope, Florence took Denzil’s arm, lightly resting her hand on his fine silk sleeve, as a lady would – she hoped, slightly embarrassed by her torn fingernails. His kindness had genuinely overwhelmed her. How long had it been since anyone had spoken to her like that, with tenderness and concern? Not since her early arrival in the village and Jenny’s sweetness. And Nat. She couldn’t think of him now. Denzil had to be all that mattered. She was beginning to believe that her instincts were correct.

  They passed into the garden with its night scents of phlox and honeysuckle beginning to waft on the zephyrs which played between the leafy trees, and entered the rose garden. The dew showed against his fine boots but made no impact on her impervious footwear. This simple lawn, so familiar to her and so endemic in her own time, symbolised Denzil’s wealth and status. In the summer, it was the sole focus of one lad who scythed it close and prised out weeds on a daily basis simply so that the Master could take a gentle stroll of an evening. She had seen the boy lying in wait for the geese who favoured the easy worm pickings here and left their sticky, substantial droppings in return, if left to settle. It was a small pleasure in her day to watch this comic pantomime from the open kitchen door as he beat them away and they fought back with sharp beaks. And now she was enjoying the soft springy carpet of that endeavour and it was wonderfully cushioned beneath her weary feet. No servant was allowed to walk on it.

  Denzil paused at a patch of night stocks, bent and breathed in their perfume with closed eyes. He seemed in no rush to continue their conversation. ‘Ah. Intoxicating!’ He stayed enraptured while Florence watched his blissful expression. ‘A pleasure not to be missed on such a rare night.’ Inclining his head slightly, he turned his full gaze on her. The scents of night were intoxicating.

  Their perambulation had reached the rose garden’s knotted patterns and when he collected up a handful of fallen petals, she noticed that his hands were calloused, with small burn marks. She’d heard that he had an interest in his garden and plants and that he liked to tend his herb plot himself. A gentleman’s hobby.

  He stopped to snip off a fresh pink rose which he denuded of its sappy thorns and he handed it to her with a slight bow. ‘I believe that you enjoy the perfume of these fine flowers, Mistress Florence. May I offer you my rose garden as my first gesture of apology to you.’

  ‘But Sir!’ she expostulated, ‘What possible reason could you have to make apology to me! You have given me a home and hearth when none could be expected in these dreadful times. You asked nothing of my circumstances but accepted me as I was. No apology is owed.’

  ‘And yet, I was fool enough not to recognise the lady before me! How could I have been so blind. You must let me make amends. Mistress Florence, I shall not ask what terrible divisions separated you from your family. It is a divided age which none of us thought to see. Whether you speak for King or Parliament, is not for me to ask and, in truth, I would rather not know it. To declare such knowledge is often a . . . nuisance. It is simple: you are a lady in need of a protector and I, am able to offer that protection to you. I shall do my duty by you. I shall listen carefully to anything which you care to share with me but I shall demand no information which you are not inclined to give.’

  She nodded sadly. She would have to tell him a story and hope that he wouldn’t ask for too many details. She was still wary of speaking. It was so very easy to slip and make a faux pas and she’d notice Denzil listening carefully to the sound of her voice.

  ‘I hear by your voice that you have travelled a great distance and I can only imagine the perils of your journey - but I am told that you arrived with a man who has also taken shelter with us. Fear not!’ he reassured her, seeing her genuine alarm, ‘I need only to know if he is truly your brother – or what his affiliation is to you, for then I must needs offer him his due.’

  This was tricky. She had to think on her feet. She didn’t didn't want any hint that they’d been a pair. Her reputation was all. She just hoped to God that Holless didn’t know what the others seemed to.

  ‘Sir, he is no brother but a valued family retainer who has served me and mine from childhood. I let it be known that we were brother and sister – for ease whilst we travelled, but truly he is my honest protector. He has been the very soul of kindness in his service to me and I would see him well provided for – not that I have ought to offer . . .’ she allowed her voice to waver. Florence had already seen that Nat was capable of thinking on his feet. If she gained some information here, it would be a justifiable ruse. He’d understand.

  ‘I see,’ he paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘Then you must allow me to do right by this man. He shall receive his just reward. But you, mistress, have you any hope of your kin seeking your return - for surely there will be those who will be deeply sorrowed by your absence?’ he quizzed lightly, probing her for her story.

  ‘No, Sir. I fear that there is no one now who can aid me in these times,’ she shook her head at the arid truth of the statement. ‘I am estranged from those who called me daughter and sister.’ It was reasonable to say so; there were few families in England that were not so divided for King or Parliament. But which side did this man stand for? Tread very carefully now, girl, she reminded herself.

  ‘Yes. Turmoil and revelation in our torn England! It is a condition that I never thought to see . . . but His Majesty . . .’ He stopped, and Florence could see his hesitation. Treason need only to be spoken once.

  She thought that she would have to declare herself if he was to trust her. ‘Master Moorcroft, you have been honest with me and it is right that you must have my story. It is no less than you deserve.’ Florence had had long nights to think of this tale. ‘My family – the Bramleys of Southall in the county of Nottingham - declared for the King, as have most in that shire. My father, had secured for me a marriage with a notable supporter of His Majesty – a good contract but . . .’ She paused for effect. Denzil gave her the time that she needed. She noted that he was not yet offended by the story. ‘I would have obeyed my father, of course, even though I was not an admirer of the gentleman he had chosen, but my conscience was sorely troubled. How could I marry such a one when my heart sang of the rights of Parliament?’ This was a risk and there was a moment’s hesitation before Denzil offered a knowing nod of encouragement. ‘It may shock you, Sir, but I resolved to leave my family home, intending to travel to London where I knew there were friends who would support me. I had searched my soul and had come to feel that Parliament had the just cause.’ She paused in order to allow him to absorb the horror of such her decision. He did not react and so she continued, ‘But my action was moot. His Majesty’s troops were routed during the battle for Newark and our family home, my only home, was razed to the ground. My parents died in that blaze.’ She added her final detail, ‘Had I been a-bed in that house on that night, I would have perished with them.’

  Denzil leaned towards her in support and sympathy.

  She seemed to find the courage to continue, ‘In truth, our division of views divided me from them before that tragedy since they remained strong for the King until their death. Whereas I, am riven by my belief that our sovereign lord is become a puppet to the popish creed and yet, still wanting in my heart, to remain his loyal servant.’

  Denzil sympathised with the dilemma it seemed.

  ‘I fled with my loyal man, knowing that if I fell into the hands of the King’s men and my views exposed, I might be in mortal danger. It was equally implausible for me to join Cromwell’s army. Such women who travel with them . . . are not reputable. Haslet and I were in sore need of shelter when we came upon the vision of Montebray.’ Florence sighed, coming full circle in her invented tale, quite pleased with her performance. ‘I am entirely at your mercy, Sir.’ She knew that to be the truth.

  He thought for a long time while they walked and she saw that he was evaluating her story. When he looked back up at her, it seemed that while there were some
questions in his mind, he was prepared to indulge her - and it.

  ‘Mistress Florence, your story is a sad one. You have done me the honour of sharing your truth. In that spirit, I must tell you that I too, have misgivings regarding the wisdom of His Majesty’s actions but I am not yet declared for Parliament.’ There was the implication that he might do so soon. ‘I can well understand your misgivings and your struggle with your own conscience. It is a strange thing to doubt an anointed King. Be assured that whilst you remain here, my house is your home for as long as you should choose. I ask but only one boon, which you might grant.’ Florence was curious. ‘Kindly let me restore you to your rightful place - be my guest at Montebray. In these times, a lady, such as yourself, is open to the abuse of men made wild by battle and strife and I would offer you my protection until such time as you were no longer in need of it, by virtue of a good marriage or the wardship of a … suitable protector.’ He made a shallow but slow bow and was grinning broadly when he levelled his eyes to hers again.

  She began to open her mouth to thank him but he held up his hand and stopped her. Waving her notes, he laughed, ‘There is enough reason in your story to believe you an educated gentlewoman, and if you are not yet able or ready to reveal to me every detail of it, I have hopes that your trust in me will grow so that all may be told - in time. It would be the act of an uncivilised man to turn you out into the night.’

  She heard notes of scepticism in his voice but he had chosen to accept her story. When Florence spoke, it was with emotion that she’d kept in check these many months.

  ‘Your kindness is beyond any expectation of mine, Sir. How little you know of me and yet you offer me your protection and care. What is it that I can offer you to merit this?’ she asked and held her breath that he wouldn’t disappoint.

  He paused just long enough to worry her but then spoke with sparkling eyes. ‘Oh, well. You have hit it right! There is something . . . that you teach my very plain cook, the secrets of the flavour of eastern spices on simple meats!’ and they both laughed.

  ‘Done!’ she exclaimed to his surprise and quickly added more appropriately and demurely, ‘I am more grateful than you might imagine, Sir, for it would be my pleasure. The woman is a fine cook.’

  ‘Good. Then we are friends, yes? HOLLESS!’ He called, and there was the steward in the doorway. ‘It would seem that Mistress Florence is in need of our hospitality. I have come to understand that her circumstances are such that she has been misplaced here and is henceforth an honoured guest. She is a lady out of . . . her true place and, until her restoration to that, is to be afforded all due respect.’ Holless couldn’t speak, and only managed to close his mouth with some difficulty.

  ‘Master Moorcroft, might I impose upon you for one more small boon?’ Florence asked and he inclined his head. ‘Might I ask to speak to my man, Haslet, who will return shortly from his journey? I would consider it only right that I explain to him, personally, how you have altered my condition. He will need reassurance that all is well with me before he is able to be about his own business. True friend that he is, he will want to know that I am . . . safe.’

  There was no hesitation, ‘But of course. I shall have him brought to you at your earliest convenience so that you may tell him in private and that he may see you are entirely free in your choice and not coerced in any manner.’ He laughed, ‘Your sharing of such confidences has explained to me the brittleness of the man! What I had taken for surliness, is nought but his care for his mistress. He is a fellow not used to the voice of another master, I think. And this too can be forgiven,’ he smiled at her and then nodded to Holless.

  Through set teeth he hissed, ‘Yes, Master. I will have a chamber made ready and bring the man to this … lady.’ He turned smoothly on his heel and left to issue orders to that effect, bare astonishment and fury etched on the tension of his wake.

  Denzil smiled, ‘Forgive him. It will take time, Mistress Florence and I ask that you be patient with Holless. For, like your man, he is a trusted retainer of mine and has been my loyal servant for almost as long as I can remember, wanting only good for me. I fear he is suspicious of all strangers at the Hall, his only crime in wishing to protect me from any harm. Holless sees spies and traitors in every shadow but I hardly think that you will offer me such harm!’ He laughed and she joined him. ‘He will come around to your new position here – gradually - and until then, we have all the time in the world to become acquainted and become trusted of one another.’

  25

  A Young Man’s Fancy

  Nat had brought the wooden flute with him and Jonathan loved it. That first evening, he asked Nat to show him how to play it and Nat obliged. After a few, very short lessons, it dawned on Nat that the lad was entirely tone deaf. Unfortunately, that did not dull the boy’s love of a good tune and he embraced the pipe with enthusiasm if not skill. Nat taught him a simple jig to play but thought that the subtleties of Greensleeves were best left alone; he valued his own hearing.

  ‘You’ll be gone soon, no doubt,’ Jonathan reluctantly handed the pipe back, shaking the spittle out.

  ‘Aye. Probably.’

  ‘Florence will be away with you?’

  ‘She will,’ he gave the lad a wry grin.

  ‘Aye,’ it was understood.

  ‘Do you mean to be a soldier?’ Nat caught the gleam in Jonathan’s eye.

  ‘No. That’s no for me. We’re for Oxford. There are those there we would speak with.’ He needed to deflect his young friend’s romantic ideas of war.

  ‘I could go with you . . . as far as Oxford,’ the offer was tentative, shy.

  ‘No, Jonathan,’ he said - not unkindly. Your home is at Montebray. Stay there and make a life for yourself,’ he saw rejection in the boy’s face. ‘Where Florence and I go, none can follow. Not even a friend such as you.’ Nat had not estimated the sharpness of Jonathan’s sense of being rebuffed. The lad spat into the fire pride hurt. He took it personally.

  ‘Aye, well. Some of us think that there are battles worth the fighting for,’ he didn’t meet Nat’s eye as he made his announcement.

  ‘And there are, Johnny, but this is a fight that is doomed to failure no matter what. You’re young . . .’

  ‘Near to five and ten! Not a child, Nat Haslet. I have shaved my beard twice this fortnight. I’m thinking that I’ll not be going back to Montebray and that old crow Holless. It is time that I joined others who know what it is to be a man.’

  The insult met its mark. In trying to protect him, Nat had damaged a youthful male ego. Clumsy, Nat reproached himself.

  ‘Once we reach Wolverhampton, I shall find a sergeant – folk say they’re in all the towns – and I shall sign up and shoulder arms for His Majesty.’ Jonathan was puffed up with wounded pride.

  ‘I see you are set, friend. I’d advise you to think again – not to let your pride lead you into danger,’ he sighed, ‘but I know what it is to want to see a little of the world and since I, at least, consider us to be friends,’ he paused to make the point, ‘I shall give you some advice and I beg you - man to man - to take it. Even then, you may die – it is the lot of a soldier to be at the mercy of the ambition of powerful men. Do you fancy that, lad? Dying of putrid wounds in a muddy field where your name will never mark your grave?’ he saw Jonathan swallow. ‘Aye, think on’t. Meanwhile, here is what you should know.’

  Despite Jonathan’s dismissive nonchalance, Nat had his attention.

  ‘Whatever your own thoughts, know that the King is doomed. Two generals will be successful and, if you can, find one of these men and join them: Thomas Fairfax and Oliver Cromwell. Fairfax is the better general but Cromwell’s star will rise further. Should you survive the battles, detach yourself from Cromwell’s army and fade away to your family. There will be a new King and England will find peace again.’ It was more than a prophecy and Nat saw how unnerved Jonathan was with the nature of it.

  ‘And how does such as you, know these things, Nat Haslet?’ his co
ntempt was a thin disguise for his alarm at such treasonous talk.

  ‘I know it because I have been a soldier and I have seen what will come to pass,’ he spoke very quietly and all that could be heard was the sparking of the fire and a slight breeze stirring the trees.

  ‘Ha!’ Jonathan forced the expostulation out before turning his back on Nat, to sleep.

  In the morning, Nat was alone. He hoped two things: firstly, that Jonathan had heeded his warnings and secondly, that the lad wasn’t returning with priest and magistrate. Alone now, he trudged on to Wolverhampton, and was surprised by its charm. It was a prosperous market town and its centre, High Green was buzzing with activity, its winding lanes and abutted houses suggesting a far earlier origin for the place. Nat saw, with dismay, that there were plenty of locksmith shops and he was directed down Woolpack Lane where he was told Noake’s shop was. It occurred to Nat that Moorcroft might have had his pick of locksmiths in Wolverhampton and that it didn’t bode well for the quality that Noake’s shop was out of the centre. He found it on the very edge of the town, a run-down building with little sign of active business. The door was open and he stepped into the gloom. It was empty, untidy and chaotic. He called out and a door, barely visible at the back of the shop, opened just enough to let through a large man who said nothing.

  ‘Nat Haslet, master. Here for the lock and stanchion for Master Moorcroft.’

  ‘Ah. Good. Step in fellow. I have it for you.’ The locksmith came further into the light and, if Nat had not already been near the door, he would have moved towards it; the man, large and well-muscled, had an air of menace about him.

  ‘I was expecting two men from Montebray,’ he looked past Nat, as if the other might be waiting outside.

  ‘He scarpered in the night. Left for the army. A young lad.’

  ‘Did he now? Well, more fool him, I say.’ There was some venom in the words. ‘You’ll take a mug of ale with me?’ he was already pouring two substantial tankards.