Florence found Pru waiting to undress her but she dismissed her friend, feeling that she deserved no kindness or sympathy for what she had just inflicted. She wanted to spend the night in a cold dark room but Denzil had other plans. He insisted that the fire was set and that candles were lit – rather a lot of candles – and then he took Florence towards the window. ‘Do you see him there, in the shadows? No! Do not look. He must believe that he is unseen and that we act from devotion. Now, you will respond to me as though I were he.’
Nat knew that he was torturing himself but he had to be certain. As the night fell, he saw them again. He watched her pacing across the leaded window in her chamber, wringing her hands and staring out into the dark night. And then Denzil was there and she seemed to relax as he stepped across her to draw the heavy curtains. He too looked out across the lawn. Nat wondered if he could be seen. Denzil didn’t quite pull the curtains to and so, in the narrow frame of the lit window, he saw the man tenderly pull Florence towards him and kiss her as she sank into his arms. His embrace became more passionate and pausing for a very brief moment, to look across the garden, he then closed the curtains on the scene. Nat’s heart was pounding.
‘Leave it my boy,’ Cook sighed. Nat had not even heard her approach. He continued to stare. ‘She’s in another world now and she’ll not return to yours, I think.’
‘It’s hard - seeing her there - with him. I came back and the world was upside-down.’
‘Things have a habit of doing that. It will be hard - while ever you’re here. It will break your heart and you’ll not change a thing. Why not take the purse and find what it is that you seek? Sure, if Florence has landed Master Moorcroft, she’s a clever ‘un and has taken her own step into her future.’
‘You don’t understand.’ He was dismissive, ‘She’s all that links me to … my past.’
‘You’d be surprised, Nat Haslet at what I understand. Look, why don’t you get yourself to London or Oxford and set yourself up there? Lots of opportunities there even if the streets aren’t paved with gold! You might even find what you’re seeking. Could be that there’s a pretty girl there that’s just right for you. We never know what our future holds do we? Only two things are certain in this life.’
‘Death and taxes?’
‘No. Death and shagging I was going to say. Seems to me that you can avoid taxes.’ Nat laughed.
‘Yeah. You may be right, Cook.’ He looked at her, puzzled, ‘What is your name?’
‘Oh, not one that you’ll have heard of. ‘Tis foreign to these parts.’
‘Please. I could do with a friend to name,’ he pleaded.
A tired smile played over her features, of regret and longing. ‘Ah now. Do you know, I have told no one my name this past twenty years and thinking on it, I find that something still lives within me where I thought I had buried it.’ She laughed aloud. ‘Very well. I feel inclined to tell you – if only to see what reaction I’ll get.’ She was light-hearted, as though a weight had been lifted.
‘First, know that I have worked hard to gain my position here. It has saved me from lunacy or worse and there was a time when I thought I would be undone. Second: when I tell you, you will ask things of me that I will not answer, for that way madness lies and I will not kindle false hope in my own heart by reliving what once was. I know only one way to survive here and that is to bury my past. Like you, Nat Haslet, I cannot go back. None of us can. Take my example and live your life – here in the now of this time.’
Nat had stopped breathing.
‘And finally, some advice: be well away from London by 1665. I don’t remember much school history but none of us are protected from the plague.’ This was the second seismic shock of Nat’s day.
‘My name, Nat Haslet, is Kylie Donovan – a popular name in seventies Australia but quite unknown in London when I landed.’ She waited for him to find his voice.
‘You’ve travelled - through the trees.’
‘Bloody day trip to the New Forest. Yes. And for many months I thought that I had gone mad or was in a coma. I would have died alone, had Ezra Holless not found a place for me at Montebray. Until you and Florence arrived, I had almost managed to convince myself that it had been some dream.’
‘Do they know? How did you know about us?’ Nat’s mouth was dry.
‘Ezra knows. Moorcroft does not. As for you . . . It was ‘OK’. You said it to one another when you thought that none heard. One of the girls came to me and whispered that she thought that you might be spies and speaking in foreign tongues. So, I listened and nearly wet myself! You should be more careful. It’s taken me years to get the patterns right. The rest is silence.’ She pressed her thin form against Nat’s and hugged him for a long time. He wrapped his arms around her, sad for both of them. Slowly and regretfully, she detached herself, gave him a wan smile and adjusted her apron.
‘Come lad. Supper’s waiting.’
‘You said Holless helped you,’ the astonishment in Nat’s voice was clear. ‘When did you come through? Where? Which tree?’ but Cook was as good as her word and would say nothing else. Short of shaking her bodily, Nat could find no way to make her tell him of who she’d been . . . before. Kylie had gone and there was no trace at all of anyone but Cook in the kitchen. He burned to share the information with Florence but she was totally inaccessible to him. She needed to know that there were others like them. Of course, there were! Why wouldn’t there be! Cook – Kylie – did not think that there was a way home, that was for sure. If Florence had given up all hope of it, he had not. Kylie made him think that Oxford was a good plan.
28
The Final Straw
Within days, the seamstress had provided her with a range of impossibly opulent clothes. Layer upon layer was piled onto her until she thought that she would never be able to move again. If the clothes of a peasant had been uncomfortable, those of a gentlewoman were impossible. She longed for her jeans.
Dressed in fabrics more suitable for soft furnishings, Florence thought that she’d never be cool again and kept to the shade of the oak-lined rooms. She looked for chances to escape, to run to Nat (more like a brisk waddle in this lot, she thought) but Holless guarded her carefully. If she was in the public rooms, he was with her. He would suggest that she might like to rest and then he locked her in her bedchamber. She’d even considered climbing down the rose trellis but it would have been impossible in these skirts and in any case, the thorns looked vicious. She looked for Nat but she had to content herself with what Pru told her about him.
Yes, he was devastated. He was gathering supplies to leave. Holless was being helpful to that end. He planned to go soon he said. Florence heard it with a sense of shame at the pain she was inflicting. She knew that she couldn’t tell him. He’d do something impulsive and he’d get hurt. The only gift that she could give, was the lie she gave. She had to make Nat truly hate her so that he stopped looking back and found the life he deserved. She still harboured the hope that she would find him again. Perhaps by then, he’d have let her go.
She spent a great deal of time within the cool house but it was dull. She wandered the rooms freely – except for Denzil’s which was locked – and she examined the portraits and the furniture in detail. Despite the horror of her situation she still loved the antiquity of it and found herself running her fingertips lightly across the furniture and especially the oak panels, thinking of home. Sometimes she thought that there was the slightest sensation of tingling as she touched them. She doubted herself and did it again and there it was, a distinct sensation, almost like the buzz of electricity, centred on one small section. Florence was interested and experimented with other corridors and rooms. The feeling was largely absent but there were three spots in the house where she experienced it and she could not explain it. A vague memory nagged at the back of her mind about Granny Brock and one of her stories.
On rainy days, Locksley became a playground and Granny Brock was a source of entertainment. Florence knew that h
er mother was irritated by her eccentricity, but she liked the old woman. She recalled how Gran had told her about the oak in the panels, that sometimes, the wood kept the energy of someone who had ‘passed’, someone who was still tied to this earth through the wood itself. Gran had said that it was why old houses were haunted.
Even now, Florence remembered how scared she’d been by the story and how much she’d tried to resist Gran’s fat hand grabbing hers and forcing it along the panels. She’d felt the tingling then and Granny’s eyes saw the reaction and twinkled. ‘Me too, my dear. We’re special.’ Later that night when she’d awoken with nightmares, her mother had gone to Gran’s room, woken her up and given her a huge telling off about what she’d said. Florence didn’t remember hearing much of Gran’s reply except for the phrase, ‘Skipped a generation . . .’ She never told Florence stories again in the few remaining months until she left them.
Florence had to stop the experiment because she’d been Holless, watching her like the vulture he was, suggested that if she still had desires to polish furniture then he could provide her with the materials. ‘Mistress’ he added with laden sarcasm. She hoped that Holless thought it too trivial a thing to mention to Denzil.
There were times when Holless was absent and then Denzil was her keeper. That evening, he was most insistent that they walk together in the garden. He had another performance in mind. ‘It would seem that Nathanial cannot quite believe your devotion to me, my dear. I fear he is reluctant to leave Montebray.’
Florence hoped that her joy didn’t show.
‘We will simply have to convince him, won’t we? I gather he has taken to lurking where he might catch sight of you. Let us indulge him then. You will follow my lead when I speak and you will make the correct choices with your answers. Come.’
He led them to the centre of the garden, filled with colour and perfume. Pausing, he turned towards her. He had taken an early rose, removed the thorns and now he presented it to her. Had it really been a gesture of true love, it would have been sweet. Florence wanted to stuff it down his throat.
‘Florence, you have been with us – with me - for some time now.’
Here it is, she thought. This is what he wants Nat to hear.
‘It is no longer proper for you to remain here alone without family or chaperone.’
She said nothing but looked confused.
‘There is . . . an alternative, my dear.’
What sort of proposition was this?
‘We have, dare I suggest, grown close in our short time together. We are at ease in one another’s company and you have found peace at Montebray, is it not so? I add, with all modesty, that it is clear that we are attracted to one another’s charms.’
She forced herself to nod but it wasn’t enough for him and he pinched her hand. ‘Yes, Denzil. It is true.’
‘It is a source of joy for me to have your companionship as I write my letters and while we sit in the evening. I did not know how lonely I had become.’ He pinched her again.
‘And for me. I have found joy in being with you.’ This was torture.
He continued, ‘Now, I cannot imagine being without you, should this damned war ever cease and you return to your home. I could not bear that loss.’ He swallowed. ‘Mistress Florence, would you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife and Mistress of Montebray Hall?’
He’d not knelt. Denzil Moorcroft could never do that. She wanted to rip the smug smile from his face and scream ‘Fuck off! Go to hell!’ She didn’t. Instead, Florence looked up into his eyes and whispered, ‘Yes, Denzil. I will.’
He stepped towards her, drew her to him and kissed her passionately. ‘Make me believe it you little whore, or he’ll regret it.’
Florence thought that she’d never had more courage than when she returned his kiss.
She didn’t hear Nat’s intake of breath by the kitchen door, hidden behind the climbing rose but Denzil did and smiled.
Nat stormed into the yard, needing air and space. Wounded and furious, he heard a low, rasping voice.
‘Here, varlet!’
Nat wondered how that man’s voice managed to cut through the noise and reach its target, when he never raised it?
‘Not now Holless. Just for once leave me be.’ His fists were bunched, his nails digging into his palms.
‘Here,’ and Holless waited for him to traverse the yard and stand before him. Nat thought that if he didn’t make eye contact and didn’t speak, he might just manage not to thump the man.
‘It is time for you to leave Nat Haslet. Go from Montebray and stop this pathetic indulgence in your own pain.’
Nat snatched his left arm back and aimed a punch that, had it connected, would have knocked any man down. He hadn’t anticipated Holless’ quick reaction. Without moving his feet, the man twisted his head away so that the fist slid by his face and no contact was made. Nat had thrown such power into it that he lost his balance and landed heavily at Holless’ feet.
‘I shall forget that – as will you. Follow me,’ and he strode off towards the cow shed. Nat was embarrassed. He’d lost his temper and it was never useful in a fight. Once they were out of ear-shot of the house, Holless turned to him,
‘Nat Haslet – if that is your name and I very much doubt it – I shall tell you something now which you would do well to heed. Look at me man! That fool’s act that you perform may con simple servants but I see beneath.’ Nat lifted his eyes slowly and looked at Holless’ face with its sneer plastered across narrow lips.
‘Ah, there is the true man. You are not easy with your place here, fellow. Do not reply! It would simply be falsehood!’ Nat had opened his mouth to answer. ‘Know this: I love Denzil Moorcroft like a son. He has chosen this woman for his wife and while I try to protect him from Godless villains such as her and you, I must bow to his commands. He will wed her and it seems that she sees the advantage in it. I do not know from whence you came but two things are certain to me. Firstly, you know the whore as more than either brother or manservant. And secondly, that you do not belong here – not in this England.’ Every muscle in Nat’s body tensed.
‘Ah. And now it seems that I have your attention - without the tomfoolery and bluster.’ Holless was enjoying this. ‘I expect you to say nothing - for nothing that comes from your mouth will be honest. I tell you this: you should go. Go far away from here.’ There was low menace now. ‘If you intend some harm to this house, then it would be better for you that you had never been born for I am fierce in my protection of it and of the man it holds. You have made an enemy here. Leave, Nat Haslet, or face the terrible consequences and remember that I can snuff her out like a guttering candle. It would take but a word to my master to make it clear that she is a pocked whore – for I have seen the marking on her neck.’ And, clicking his fingers to illustrate the point, he moved around Nat’s frozen figure.
Nat had no doubt that Holless would do what he threatened and would expose Florence if he needed to – if Nat presented a problem. Of course, he probably thought that their lies were linked to the intrigues of the times. How could he know the outrageous actuality of their narrative? It seemed that if he wanted Florence’s safety, he must go. He wondered when he would stop thinking of her as his problem.
29
Call of Duty
She didn’t really know how long this nightmare had endured, but Gwendolyn Gerrard had grown thin. Always inclined to look on the bright side, she consoled herself that this was a good thing because the manacles which were clamped around her slender wrists and had chafed them until they bleed, were now loose enough to wrestle them off. She was building up the courage to endure the pain of it. Once she had, it didn’t resolve the problem of how to slip past the guard - Holless, who never entered into the hell-hole itself but stood in the door-way, flinging in the barest of necessities for survival. They’d have been better without them, better to die quickly than rot in here. This whole experience had reassured her of one thing: she was on the side of the
angels and these people were the vilest scum on God’s earth. That Nazis already had a foothold on English soil, terrified her. The authorities must be told and she must tell them.
Gwendolyn had lost any sense of day or night, the only punctuation marks to the hours were the sounds of Holless arriving. This time, there was more sound than usual and in the small light filtering down from the room high above, she saw and felt a body being hurled in to the chamber. It fell heavily next to her. Some other poor sod that they’d tortured. When Holless left, she heard the body moan. Reaching over, she turned it and managed to hold a sliver of ice in her hand so that the water dripped in to his mouth.
‘My thanks,’ it was barely a whisper.
There was nothing else to do here and over the course of the next few hours, she concentrated on helping this poor soul to recover. Just like the others, he spoke strangely but it was English – perhaps a regional dialect. He seemed to find her voice reassuring. She learned that his name was Hugh Gilbert and that he had indeed been questioned and tortured at the hands of the man that Holless called Denzil. The three others in the room were dying, traumatised and starved beyond recovery. Gwendolyn wondered how long they’d been there.
‘Gwendolyn, please hear me. It is vital that I escape this place and return to tell my masters of what is happening here.’
‘Quite. Perhaps we might just establish who your ‘masters’ are, Hugh,’ she felt sorry for his pain but she’d been trained by the best. easily.
‘I . . . I fight on the side of righteousness.’
‘As do I, Hugh but I will do nothing unless you can assure me that you are fighting for the allies. I won’t help a traitor.’ She set her lips tight.
‘What was the year of your birth, Gwendolyn?’ he winced as he shifted.
‘Well, that’s a rather personal question to ask a lady!’ she thought that a little humour might help distract him. ‘Very well. I was born in twenty-two.’
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 28