Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles

by Jayne Hackett

  ‘Which century?’

  She frowned, ‘Nineteen hundred and twenty-two, of course.’

  ‘Then I shall tell you how I came to be here, Gwendolyn Gerrard and you will hold a great secret.’

  Over the next few minutes, Hugh told her the most impossible story she’d ever heard. It was painful for him to speak but he was insistent that he finish.

  ‘And these Texans protect the portals, protect time itself?’

  He nodded, exhausted. ‘Taxanes.’

  ‘Yes. Well, then. All they have to do is to time-travel and kill Hitler – or his mother – something like that, and the war will never start. Millions will live that never deserved to die. My cousin . . .’

  ‘No. This is not our way. The acts of history must occur as they will. The portals are accidents of fate and we neither control them nor predict when such an occurrence will happen. All we can do is to protect our world from the knowledge of this magic and its misuse by men of evil intent.’ She offered him more ice and he continued, ‘This place is an aberration. Denzil Moorcroft knows everything that I know about the Taxane Order and the Futures Chapter. I fear my courage was insufficient to resist his cruelty.’

  Gwen patted him. Denzil was skilled. She really didn’t know if Hugh believed what he said or if it was the product of delirium but she didn’t contradict him. The man was dying. He couldn’t eat but he sipped the water. She had felt the sticky wounds on his body. She could do nothing for him and she feared, from the smell of them, that they were infected. He would certainly die of those wounds if they did not find a way out of here; even if they found aid, he might well die.

  Hugh displayed a courage that Gwen admired. He spoke of escape and combining their talents in order to do so. He said that if she escaped and he did not, she must seek out the Texans and tell them her story; they would help. Gwen thought that it was highly improbable that she would encounter Americans in these parts. They rarely travelled far from their bases. Nevertheless, she promised him that she would do so. At other times, Hugh raved in his fever and spoke of the passage of time and of a great yew tree that was at the centre of the world. She listened patiently, waiting for lucidity to return.

  With Hugh’s help, and the thinness of starvation, she managed to slip from her manacles. The others pleaded with them then, begging for their help, with strange words some of which seemed almost familiar. Gwen gestured to them, trying to show them that their best hope was in their silence and in her escape. That, once free, she would return to free them. What else did they have? They believed her – poor creatures! She’d been trained to be ruthless when the security of her country required it.

  Gwendolyn listened for Holless opening the doors to their oubliette and stood before it so that he would see her there unchained. Behind the door, holding the bucket that usually held the excremental food that he gave to them, waited Hugh, using every ounce of the strength left to him. The door opened and Holless started to hook the bucket with the long pole which allowed him to avoid stepping foot in the mire of human waste but he saw Gwendolyn and made to step towards her.

  The bucket was heavy in Hugh’s trembling hands as he launched himself from the darkness at Holless and landed the bucket fully into his surprised face. Holless slipped into the mire with a scream and the others began to reach for him, their demented fury unloosed – but not unchained. She saw the keys to the outer door clutched in his slimy hand and brought the bucket down again so that before he had the chance to respond, the keys were in her hands. If he had any sense of preservation, he’d slither out of there as fast as he could, like the snake that he was. If the others managed to catch hold of him, she thought that they would likely eat him. She pulled the spent Hugh to his feet half carrying him as they made for the outer door and freedom, trying to block the sounds of fury and despair behind her.

  As they stumbled towards the faint light, straining painfully after their captivity, Gwen’s breath was short and her muscles weak. Hugh was a heavy burden but somehow, he managed to keep his legs moving, staggering along with her. She unlocked the door with the sound of Holless’ curses, and the screams of the others in her ears. He was recovering and he made no effort to lock the dungeon behind him as he set off out after her. ‘Bitch!’ he screamed in the distance. ‘Leave here and you die!’ He was a traitorous Nazi sympathiser who didn’t know the true character of the British people. She was pretty sure that she’d not left England, so that his threat was meaningless. Once she found decent people and alerted the authorities as to what was happening here, his fate was sealed. She smiled for the first time in nearly three weeks.

  Three weeks earlier, Gwendolyn Gerrard had been on a night-time parachute jump, part of her special services training to land her in occupied Belgium and to meet and liaise with the resistance there. The pilot had warned her that the wind had picked up so that she knew she’d probably be off course. She’d landed on the edge of a forest. It was cold and raining and so she’d done what she’d been trained to do and taken shelter in an ancient oak. She must have passed out because that bastard Holless had her tied up by the time she’d come around, and she found herself in a cellar. She assumed that it was a medieval castle – lots of those in the area - with a dungeon and she wondered which traitor owned it. He’d certainly hang when she got back, she’d make sure of that and they’d rescue the other poor wretches.

  And then Denzil Moorcroft introduced himself to her and he had spent nearly three days – it was hard to remember – torturing her for information. He wanted to know some very obvious stuff – he’d even asked her who the King was - and she’d given it to him but when he started asking about her superiors and her training, she’d given him only her name, rank and number. He didn’t like that. He’d hurt her with knives and clamps, with hot metal and presses but she’d given him nothing of use! Her country could be proud of her. Moorcroft – if that was his name – had found it amusing, told her that she was of no particular use to him and they’d thrown her in the oubliette. It rather surprised her because she really thought she’d be raped as well. The vile man was probably incapable, she thought. She’d been told that both Hitler and Goebbels were utterly impotent - not that it surprised her.

  Now free, she tried to run but it was very hard with Hugh Gilbert clinging on to her. They got as far as a track when Hugh collapsed. Gwen hovered over him, facing the truth that by carrying him, she stood very little chance of escape. He saw it too. ‘Run, dear lady. Find those I told you of. They will care for you – a woman out of time,’ his head fell back and she could see that he was unconscious. Gwen had to survive, to tell others of the torment here. ‘I’ll come back for you – I promise, Hugh.’ She squeezed his hand and he seemed to smile a little, and then she ran as hard as she could, into the forest.

  Holless didn’t seem to be following her and so she slowed her pace a little. Good. He was probably licking his wounds; she was pretty sure that she’d heard his nose crack. It took her another full day and night to find people: Roundhead soldiers six miles from Montebray and they took her when she attracted their attention. Gwendolyn tried to explain and then she tried to escape but her utility jump suit was ripped off and she stood in her underclothes while the soldiers laughed and swore that they had no doubt that she was a foreign whore for sure, and probably a witch. It was agreed that they would send for a minister who would ascertain the truth and meanwhile, this slut would be gagged for fear she pour poison into the ears of good Christian men who then indulged themselves in her repeated rape.

  When Timothy Kirke arrived and Gwendolyn saw his clergyman’s outfit, she sobbed with relief. It was short lived. He searched her naked body and found the witch’s mark – a large scar on her back where she’d once snagged it on a nail in barracks. They had no hesitation in building a pyre and burning her and her demonic clothes, at the stake.

  Gwendolyn was declared missing in action in January 1945. She died in 1644.

  30

  The Ice Man Cometh />
  Like a magnifying glass focusing the sun, it had been the whisper of every servant in the Hall and it was singeing Nat. The transformation of a scullery maid to an honoured guest of the house was the only gossip. Some said (very quietly, checking carefully that Holless was not around) that she’d been a whore all along – a royal whore at that! She’d escaped the Parliamentarians and that Denzil had been seduced by her sinful wiles. They’d never been fooled of course. They were quite sure that he was happy to have her provide ‘services’ for him – the man had never even had a mistress and there was no sign of a wife on the horizon. Holless was painted as the villain of the piece – the Pandarus – the procurer.

  Nat should have noticed that Prudence was not in this gaggle of gossipers who whispered mostly out of ear shot but sometimes loud enough for him to hear. Perhaps they thought that he’d hate her enough to join in.

  Holless took no pleasure in announcing the betrothal of Master Moorcroft to Florence Bramley and it hit Nat like a rock in the stomach. There was nothing to keep him here now. It was the final nail. He really did have to leave and so he arranged with Cook to build up a bag of provisions. She suggested some cured meats, biscuits and hard cheeses. Apples were always a must and onions travelled well. There was no suggestion in his talk with her of what she’d shared that once with him. There was no sly look, no wink, no suggestion or hint of another time or place. Once, when he was sure they were alone he spoke quietly to her, ‘Kylie?’ (no reaction) ‘I understand why you don’t want to say anything. You have to bury the hope. I get it. I just want you to know that if I ever find a way . . . I’ll come back and tell you how. I promise.’

  ‘Don’t.’ And that was the last she ever said to him. He couldn’t have known how afraid the prospect of returning to modernity was to her.

  He had hoped that he might have one last conversation alone with Florence but even that was denied him. On the day of his planned departure, she was escorted into the courtyard by Holless who handed over the purse of coins that Denzil had promised. It was actually quite generous and Nat took it and tucked it into his belt with thanks. Florence stepped forward but she was still within easy earshot of Holless.

  ‘Nat, dear friend,’ she hesitated. He tried not to look at her. ‘I have no words sufficient to thank you for everything that you have been to me.’ He said nothing. ‘I hope that you are successful and that you find your . . . family and are able to return home.’ Nat lifted his eyes to hers and saw that they shone with heavy tears. ‘If ever you are in need, please, Nat, return here and whatever you need will be given.’ It was as much as she dared to say with Holless in attendance.

  ‘Well, Mistress,’ he tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He could feel no compassion for her now, ‘I see that you have found a home here and I wish you joy of your marriage to Master Moorcroft. If ever I do return home again, I shall be certain to think of you and hope for your happiness - in the times to come – I’ll look for you there, Florence.’

  She understood him too. There might be a historical record of her in that time.

  Denzil joined her, taking her arm and resting it in his. ‘Safe journey, Haslet. Come Florence, there’s a chill in the air. Let’s to the fire.’

  Florence could say nothing as Nat mounted the ancient nag that had been given to him and trotted away from Montebray Hall and into the forest beyond to find the London road.

  He didn’t know whether to be furious or heart-broken and five times in the first ten minutes, he pulled the horse up and paused, considering turning around and somehow challenging Florence with her stupidity. If he made a declaration, would it sway her from this path, make her change her mind and come with him. He thought not. The horse, thinking the rider an idiot, quickly realised that she wasn’t being guided so she took her own route, a familiar one through the forest paths. Nat was too busy being conflicted to notice where she was meandering. She ambled to a stop, nibbling some juicy nettles in a dank patch and it brought Nat to his senses. Where the hell were they! He jumped down, leaving the mare to her snack and the red mist of his uncontrollable anger finally descended.

  Grabbing a heavy branch, he swiped at the undergrowth and scythed the nettles with every scrap of his strength; he struck the ground with it, wincing a little when he made contact and he stomped around like a frustrated toddler, thumping his thighs with pointless fury. As the rage seeped out of him, he sank to the floor, breathless and on his knees, and, refusing to cry, took deep breaths to calm himself. The horse had paused for a moment at this further lunacy and they stared at one another. Nat decided that it would do him good to walk for a while, letting the old nag carry his bags. He took her bridle.

  He found himself following a narrow, worn path and odd hints of sunshine persuaded him that he was heading in the right direction, vaguely south-east but he really hadn’t gone very far. The horse had the stubbornness of the elderly and halted frequently if she spied something tasty. He was persistently jolted by her sudden stops but this time it was fortuitous. Through the dappled shade of the trees, he saw a tall, lank figure striding purposefully ahead, oblivious of his presence. Holless had an unmistakable gait.

  On this day, Holless had a mission which was to take him away from the main house and to the ice house sited beneath the cold dark of the surrounding woodland. It was a regular task which made him feel ill. He alone had the key to the ice house door which opened noisily, damp and rusted with the chill of the forest. Holless was familiar with the blast of cold which met him and he withstood it without a shiver. He stepped inside and bolted the door firmly behind him. It took seconds to use the flint to light the readied candle which lit only a shallow pool of the black tunnel before him. A lesser man would have turned back but, with just a slight hesitation, Holless set off rocking with the same steady gait which had the inexorability of death about it.

  The beck which drained the icehouse, ran beneath it at a steady flow at this time of year but he could hear it burbling over hidden rocks far beneath. It also drained the foul odours of waste from the place. Sure enough, at the far end, in a dome shaped cave, was the ice which lasted them almost throughout the summer months. A nearby bucket was ready to take that ice which he chipped off to satisfy the Master’s curious drinking habits and the Cook’s making of the iced cream pudding which was beloved by his master and greedy field lads alike – if they could steal some.

  This part was easy but it was not the end. Holless had a further journey that day which sickened him. Sliding the heaviest ice block to the side with comparative ease, he exposed a small door in the stone wall, with a heavy iron lock. The key to the door was large and plain and Holless kept it warmed on a sturdy chain fastened around his waist where it disappeared into the depths of his breeches. He saw the witches’ marks above the door and shook his head at their futility. This mark intended to protect hadn’t helped these poor buggers had it? The tunnel beneath was long and low, stretching back towards the ancient parts of what had been the fortifications of Locksley Hall. Lighting the torch in the sconce at the entrance, he set off into the blackness until he came to a door that he knew he must open but which he had to steel himself to do. As soon as he turned the key, there were pitiful sounds from beyond, that turned his stomach.

  He was very cautious now, rubbing his mended nose which had been broken before at this stage. He had to remind himself that these were human voices, raised in unending misery and pain or he would have taken them for animals. Holless tried to be unmoved by the pleading and the whimpering, grateful that he could not understand the English, and he proceeded to lug the ice filled bucket with him into the round space. A faint light emanating from a distant point in the high roof of the chamber, allowed just enough light to detect the outlines of chained beings emerging from their tethers on the circular wall. They moved towards him with fettered hands which reached out to him in pitiful hope. Holless did not understand their words but he knew that they begged for mercy and release and offered meaningless bri
bes. He resisted looking into their faces as his eyes watered with the sting of ammonia.

  ‘Water,’ he snarled, trying not to gag. ‘Eventually.’ He pushed the bucket into the centre of the chamber, with a long wooden pole. He had no intention of stepping into that mire of human filth within reach of their bony arms. ‘Let it melt.’ He turned away from the imploring hands, trying hard to ignore the shite on his shoes. He didn’t bring water every day but he brought enough so that they did not die and he brought them what food he could. Cook always collected the scraps and never asked where he took them.

  Denzil had burdened him with this task and he took the duty seriously, succouring these wretches as best he could until Denzil chose to release them into the arms of death. He would endure the horror of the task for the love of God - and his master’s bidding. These creatures were, after all, unnatural - abominations. Looking briefly around the hole, Holless was pleased to see that there was no body. The stench was unbearable as they rotted. He locked the small door behind him and the sounds immediately ceased. There is no point in crying out when you know that there will be no answer.

  Holless collected the other ice bucket for Cook, and began the ascent from the hell-hole. He understood Denzil’s thirst for knowledge about these travellers. He saw that if they were set free, their fate would be sealed as madmen and demons; they would surely die. He wondered if it might not be wiser to simply kill them once Denzil had finished with them. Most were useless to him anyway and they struggled to understand many of them. They had only encountered one who spoke English and she’d escaped into the arms of the witch-hunters - Hugh Gilbert with her.

  Denzil had been excited about what he’d learned from Hugh. This Taxane Order and Futures Chapter, were the key to Denzil’s ambition it seemed. If Denzil had not killed the beggar who’d lived by the tree, they’d have known of it all much sooner but Denzil thought him an inconvenience. Now, with Hugh Gilbert’s extracted information, they understood that he’d been one of the Taxanes’ watchers. It was a mistake that they would not make again.