‘I will – and then I’ll be away. Where is the lock?’
‘In time fellow. Be not so hasty. Drink.’ He was pouring again.
Nat took a swallow and then pointedly placed his tankard on the bench. ‘Enough, I thank you. As you say, I’m walking back alone. I’d like to keep my wits about me.’ He found that he was uncomfortable with this trader’s insistence. ‘I thank you for your hospitality,’ he stood, ‘but I think I shall now away . . . Kindly bring me Master Moorcroft’s lock.’
Noakes had placed himself between Nat and the door. ‘It seems I’ve not made myself plain, Nat Haslet,’ his eyes narrowed and he pulled a short but sturdy blade from his belt. He tipped his head towards the back room and Nat moved, watching the man relax a fraction as he was obeyed.
Nat started to open the door, recalling that it had opened into the shop and rejoicing that Noakes was still a step behind him. He thrust it open, trapping the man behind it and with an additional slam, heard the satisfying crunch of hand bones.
It was a strong oak door and the man called out, sickened by the pain as his bones broke. The knife clattered to the floor and Nat scrambled to collect it but he’d underestimated the man, who freed his leg enough to return the favour and kick him in the side of the head. Instantly dizzy with the impact, by the time Nat was standing, the attacker had run, holding his broken hand across his body. Nat, slow with the concussion, staggered after him only to see the dust raised by a horse’s hooves as his assailant disappeared down the road. He was no longer under the impression that he’d been Barnaby Noakes. He wondered who the hell he was and who’d set him to kill him. There was only one answer to that.
Resting on the doorjamb to check for blood and finding only the rising lump of a bruise, he heard muffled noises coming from the back room where he found a gagged and bound woman and two young children similarly tied. The fact that they had all soiled themselves testified to the length of their captivity. Once the woman was freed, she begged for water and both she and Nat put the cups to the parched lips of the children. At first, the water simply trickled out but then a few gentle swallows led to great relief and the children opened their eyes.
‘Who was he?’ Nat asked, still cradling the older child in his lap.
‘I do not know,’ she replied between gulps of water, ‘but he has killed my husband.’ She tipped her head towards a corner of the room where a slumped figure was partly covered by a blanket. There was an odour of decay.
Nat could think of nothing to say except, ‘My condolences. Will you tell me what happened?’
He helped her to her feet and between them they washed and changed the children – a boy of six and a girl of three. Once hydrated, they recovered remarkably well and their mother handed them chunks of bread and honey which they devoured. Together, they carried the body of Barnaby Noakes into the shed at the back of the building which housed a pig and a cow. They wrapped it in heavy cloths, away from the pig, and left it there where the minister and grave diggers would see to it.
Mistress Noakes excused herself, leaving Nat with the children who were by now tucking into bowls of pottage, and when she returned, she was washed and clean.
She didn’t look unduly grief-stricken and catching that understanding on Nat’s face she offered, ‘Barnaby was fifty and was widowed a few years ago with no children. He offered a home and I was glad to take his hand. If it was not a marriage based on love, I was his loyal wife and he was a good man. He loved me for the blessing of his children and I mourn him as their father. Nat wondered how many other young women had taken up such offers as the second wife to a widower.
She took a stool by the fire which Nat had coaxed into life. ‘Barnaby liked his food and drink better than he liked making locks – but it was his choice to make. He was napping after his meal when the stranger arrived. I could see from the set of him that he was trouble and I thought that he had come to have a lock picked – Barnaby offered such services to unsavoury folk because it was less trouble than making them.
He came straight in to where my husband was and without speaking, he struck him on the head with a mallet that he’d taken from the shop.’ For the first time, her voice caught as she recalled the shock of it. ‘I don’t think that the blow was meant to kill poor Barney but it did. I heard his skull crack. The children screamed and I tried to take them out, past him but he was big and strong and he caught me easily, the little ones gathered to my skirts. The rest you saw as you came in. He showed us no mercy, not even a sip of water. Perhaps if you had not come, he would have left us to die. At least he did not defile me.’ She lifted her chin a little.
‘And did he speak? Did he ask questions of you? Perhaps he was a local man?’
‘Few words – but he was not from these parts – nor do I think him a Hollander. He ate, drank, farted and slept a little but paid us no heed at all. When the little ones wept, he gagged them as well.’
‘Have you any idea who sent him?’
‘I would have thought, master, that you would have more idea than I. ‘Twas you he waited for.’
Nat knew it to be true. The only ones who’d known his purpose here were Denzil Moorcroft and Holless. His death here was convenient if they wanted to be rid of him. They could say he’d gone to war and be believed – it was common. Thugs were easy to hire, deserters, ten a penny. The question was: why? Neither Moorcroft nor Holless liked him – it was mutual – but to kill him . . . No. It hit him hard. Florence. They wanted him away from her. There was something at or about Montebray that she was important to and he was a hindrance.
Nat asked Mistress Noakes how she would manage now. She snorted a laugh. ‘I am a better locksmith than ever Barnaby Noakes was. His property and his business are now mine. I would never have wished him harm, master, but in truth, my prospects now are better than they ever were. I do thank you for asking, though.’ She winked at him. Had she thought that he was making her an offer?
Nat was quick to be on his way. He grabbed a lock and escutcheon from a bench – would it matter? Now he knew why Holless had sent him out on foot. It would take him three days to return and he did not know what he would find there. Moorcroft could scarcely say he’d not been expected back.
26
Hot Water
Hot bath water. How easy it was to take it for granted, thought Florence. Turn on the tap, tip in the bubble bath and sink in. A scented candle, a glass of wine and a mellow playlist . . . troubles melted away. At first there was the quiet fascination of seeing body lice floating to the surface as the hot water loosened their grip. Florence scooped them over the edge, banishing them to oblivion. Then, she saw her dirty nails, torn beyond redemption, revealed again and all she could smell was rose-water.
They brought her hot water, jug after jug, pouring it into the copper bath tub and she’d almost cried with the pleasure of it. Drawing a prune-skin hand from beneath the surface, she turned it over, and was pleased to notice that the callouses had softened a little. Each time she congratulated herself on her turn of fortune, she reminded herself that this was temporary. She was here to find out what Denzil Moorcroft knew. Florence was sure that Nat would be surprised but . . . pleased when he returned. She had made progress. She was putting their plan into action. It was a pity that he’d not said goodbye before he set off.
Denzil installed her in a room with fresh clothing and a maid. Florence was delighted and embarrassed to see Pru. Her friend entered awkwardly, not knowing how to greet her new mistress. The girl was nervous and couldn’t meet Florence’s eye but Florence shot towards her and embraced her in an enthusiastic hug, which also helped to hide her own unease.
‘Mistress?’ Pru extricated herself, confused.
‘Pru! It’s just me. We are friends are we not?’
Pru had allowed herself to be held but now a small frown of puzzlement appeared. ‘Please, sit. Let me explain all.’ She waved them over to the window seat where Pru perched on the very edge, glancing anxiously at the door.
Florence was flushed with excitement at this turn of events. She could feel opportunities and possibilities in this new sphere. She thought that it was important that Pru remained an ally - a friend. Pru already knew her deficiencies, now Florence would have to weave a story that explained it. This would be delicate.
‘You’ve noticed . . . before . . . that there are odd things about me?’ she began.
Pru could not help a quirk of the lips. ‘Surely not!’
Florence was a fool if she thought that she could play silly buggers with Pru. ‘Yes. Well. You were right - of course.’
Pru looked at her.
‘You noticed my speech and you saw that there are many things which you know and which I do not.’ She thought she heard Pru huff. ‘It is time for you to know the truth.’ Florence was lecturing now, ‘I have not always been without family or position. My name is Florence Bramley, of Southall, Nottinghamshire and my father was a gentleman.’ Florence thought that it sounded more convincing each time that she told it but the condescending smile that she beamed at Pru was quickly wiped from her face.
‘Of course, Mistress Florence. If that is the tale you tell, it is true.’
‘No. Really. It’s the truth Prudence. Why, do you doubt me?’ Denzil had believed her.
Pru shuffled near to Florence on the window seat. She spoke urgently and quietly, ‘I shall tell you my thoughts once, Florrie and then be silent. That you are indeed strange, is without doubt, but that you are of gentle stock…Pah! You know nothing of possets, of linens or of how to conduct yourself in decent company. You do not know how to sew or embroider. You have none of the graces of a gentlewoman and you speak most strangely. For damned certain, you are not Nat Haslet’s sister,’ she snorted. ‘Finally: I have heard you sing and such songs as you know are not . . . natural to this land. I did think me that you were a papist spy but when I knew you better . . .’
‘Oh, Pru. Thank you. Your trust . . . ’
‘Trust be buggered! You are too plain clumsy and useless to be a spy. Why, you cannot even speak the King’s English plain.’
Florence was stoic, crossing her arms.
‘You think that you have convinced Master Moorcroft of your tale but I warn you, Florrie, he has his secrets. Take great care there. I have no idea how you have managed this . . . to be a lady in this house, but you tread a dangerous path that many girls before you, and in other places, have thought would make their fortune. It always ends in misery and shame. This I know to be true. Now, I believe you to be a kindly person – if simple minded - and I have no idea what your intention is here, Florrie but I do wonder what Nat Haslet will think of this when he returns. And that is all I will say of it.’
‘Don’t hold back, Pru. Tell it how it is,’ Florrie groaned. Her friend had done just that and her common sense and forthrightness cracked the shell of Florence’s self-delusion. If Pru was so clear about the deceit, how could Denzil possibly have believed her. Florence felt irrationally petulant at Pru’s scepticism. ‘Master Moorcroft has been the perfect gentleman to me in my time of great need,’ she stammered faintly.
Pru had caught the shadow of Holless out of the corner of her eye, stood and bobbed a curtsey, ‘I am most happy to serve you, Mistress. Your pardon for any offence I might have caused before I knew the truth of your situation. I shall attend to your every need.’
Florence saw that the intimate moment was ended. She tried to snatch at her friend’s hands, now certain that she was in hot water but Pru pulled back, ‘We are still friends, Pru? I can still rely on you?’
‘Yes, mistress. You may depend on me.’ Florence wasn’t sure what she was affirming. The tissue of lies between them, was very thin.
Prudence’s way was blocked by Holless as she left the chamber. It was an unpleasant sensation to feel his bony form so close pressed. ‘Will I need to send Ethan to the quarry, girl?’
The dangers of quarrying rock were legendary. If a fall of rock didn’t kill you, the dust might. ‘No Mister Holless. No need for that. I have said nothing to her - but I cannot stop her speaking to me, now can I?’
‘Then you keep your tongue still, girl. Mind, if she does speak, I am to be told.’
‘Aye, Mister Holless.’
Holless spun on his heels and faded into the gloom.
Prudence returned to Florence with an armful of more garments. Denzil had apologised that Montebray Hall did not have any garments suitable for a gentlewoman. He insisted that a seamstress would be sent for immediately but for now, Florence had to make do with the plain but well-made clothes that Prudence had gathered for her. She suspected that both Cook’s wardrobe and Pru’s had been raided and she battled uncomfortably with that knowledge as Pru dressed her. The shift was her own, but freshly washed. Together with the two petticoats that she usually wore, Pru added two more. Florence had long since mourned the loss of underwear. What had begun as a vulnerability, had become a freedom.
‘What is that!’ Florence exclaimed at the padded semi-circle that Pru held.
‘A lady would know, mistress,’ Pru snapped. ‘It is a roll.’ Seeing the blank look on Florrie’s face she explained, ‘It lifts the skirts at the back, without disclosing the … outline of the lady and presents a pleasing aspect.’
‘To whom?’ Florence was incredulous.
‘To men.’
‘Ah.’
The heavy linen bodies were fitted and then a simple jacket was added. The overskirt at least had a worn pattern on it. A delight was to come. No cap! Pru tutted over Florence’s hair which was still immodestly short. It seemed that a gentlewoman’s pride was her hair.
‘In your case it would be better that you wore a cap. At least for church, we will find you a hat to cover this . . . man’s pelt.’
Not for the first time, Florence wished it would grow. Prudence pinned and stitched until the clothes fitted well enough and she declared Florrie presentable. It felt satisfying to be so comfortably dressed in fresh linens. She reminded herself that these were borrowed items and she was taking from her friends. She banished the thought, wanting to be presented to Denzil Moorcroft with a clear conscience.
Florence was collected by Holless who announced that the Master awaited her. With Pru in her wake, she was surprised to be ushered towards Moorcroft’s chamber. The door was open and Denzil stood in the centre of his opulent room in front of a large item covered with a silk cloth. The Steward entered and held a rapid whispered conversation with his master. Denzil smiled throughout and then dismissed the man.
‘My dear. You are much improved,’ he swept his eyes over her and Florence felt herself blush. ‘Once we have the cloth you deserve, the picture will be complete.’ He held out his hand and she reached towards him. Drawing her near to him he could barely contain his excitement when he told her, ‘I have a surprise for you, dear Florence.’ He pulled off the silk to reveal a full-length mirror in a gilded frame. ‘It is mine but I wish you to have the use of it my dear. You will be able to see for yourself your beauty and how you have captivated me,’ he whispered, leaning into her hair, his lips very close to the acorn tattoo.
She shivered at the whisper of his breath. The plan seemed to be advancing at a pace that she’d not anticipated. ‘Why, it’s magnificent, Master Moorcroft. I thank you most sincerely for such a thoughtful gift. I have never seen such a mirror.’ That was true. She hadn’t actually seen a mirror since she’d been here.
‘It is my pleasure,’ he breathed again. Prudence sneezed just outside the door. ‘Oh, dear. Your serving girl is reminding me how improper it is that you should be in my chamber alone with me,’ he smiled.
‘I’m sure that Pru is . . .’ Florence didn’t like the tone of his voice.
He interrupted, ‘Yes. I’m sure of Prudence also.’ He held Florence’s hand and guided her towards the open door. Just as she thought that he was about to let her through it, he reached across her and pulled the door to, slamming it so loudly that Florence heard a small squeak of su
rprise from Prudence on the other side.
Denzil still had hold of Florence’s hand in a firm grip. ‘Do you think that she might be a witch? Are we harbouring the devil at Montebray?’ He searched Florence’s face for an answer. She thought that she’d misheard him or that this was a use of language that she didn’t understand. She tugged her hand out of his, carefully.
‘Come, Florence, take a seat by the fire. A glass of brandy wine perhaps, to stave off the chills?’
His tone was so friendly that Florence was sure that she must have got it wrong. ‘Thank you, sir.’ For a few moments, they sipped the dark golden brandy and warmed their faces in the flames. The brandy slid down easily and warmed her stomach so that she relaxed a little. Denzil was seated opposite, oblivious to her surprise. She thought that it was an ill-timed jest.
The odd noise from outside the door hinted that Pru remained.
Florence refreshed her determination to find information. The fire, the brandy and the peace of the room suggested that now might be the time to find out what Denzil Moorcroft knew.
‘Your business in London keeps you from Montebray frequently,’ she began. ‘You devote so much time to it. It must be fascinating.’
‘It is. Fascinating.’
‘Are you not afraid Master Moorcroft. The road is so very perilous in these times. Why, even on our path here, we came across a poor gentleman who had been set upon by villains. He died even as we tried to tend him.’
Denzil looked at her over the brandy glass, ‘A gentleman you say? Are you able to recall him?’
‘Why yes. He was of your height, I think but a little older. He was in a sorry state.’
‘His clothes?’
‘It was difficult to see . . . the blood, the stains. Perhaps he wore a blue jacket?’
‘His hair?’
‘Was filthy but he was largely bald, I think.’ She saw thunder on Denzil’s face.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 26