Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles

by Jayne Hackett

  His face was blank.

  ‘I am marrying Denzil in seven days. He’s given me shelter and protection and I trust him. Once we’re married, my life will be good and we’d both be better off far away from one another. I think that I can be content here – with him. You’re offering me maybes . . . in every sense,’ she said very quietly. ‘Seven days. If you can come up with a better offer in that time, come up and see me!’ There was no smile. A silence settled between them.

  Oddly, Nat smiled. Not once had she talked about love. ‘There’s something else. Cook . . .’ their heads turned at the same time as they heard the firm footsteps on the stairs. Denzil or Holless.

  ‘Please Nat. Go! Go now. Denzil can’t find you here. Ssshhh,’ she ordered as his mouth opened as if he needed to say something.

  ‘Yeah. I’d better . . . He smiled at her, already on the window’s sill, ‘Florence, I wish . . . I wish you . . .’ he jumped back down, wrapped her in his arms before she had time to protest, and kissed her hard. She reeled as he released her and said, ‘Seven days, eh?’ And with that he was clambering back out of the window and onto the rose trellis. Frozen to the spot, she watched his grin disappear like the Cheshire Cat, the taste of him still on her lips. There were increasingly distant little cries of ‘ouch’ and ‘shit’ as the thorns bit him. A soft thud signalled his landing and before Florence could reach the window’s edge to tell him to come back and to take her with him, he was gone, away across the lawns and into the woods beyond. She turned back into the jewel box of a room, its glow dulled.

  Outside her door, Denzil’s buckled shoes stopped. He knew that he’d heard voices within.

  He entered without knocking. She was drying the fat tears that had spilled out, trying not to look bereft. Denzil stood on the threshold, leering at her.

  ‘You know, I could have sworn that I heard voices. I thought that Holless was perhaps in discussion with you.’ He was at the window, scanning the garden. ‘It seems that I was mistaken.’ His fingers drummed on the sill. ‘I think, perhaps that we should bring the happy day forward, Florence. We should be joined as one, don’t you agree?’

  He knew. The bastard knew.

  Denzil had ridden back hard once he realised he hadn’t caught up with Nat on the road. The man must have watched him go and then doubled back! And he knew where he was heading. The stable boy took the horse, thinning his lips as he saw the flecks of blood on the animal’s flanks and mouth but Denzil was beyond caring. He ran towards the house from the kitchen entrance and upstairs Holless was seated outside her room surprised to see Denzil. Denzil slowed himself down and ‘Forgive me, my dear, I was passing and could not but hear your…distress. It is perhaps unseemly to disturb you at this late hour, but I have to know if I am the cause of your sorrow. I would not wish to be a source of sadness to you . . . Perhaps I have pressed my suit too hard. Perhaps it is the memory of your . . . family which distresses you.hovered at the door, a vision of calmness.

  Florence’s heart was pounding but all that mattered was that Nat was gone. ‘Whatever you please,’ she intoned.

  ‘Ah, sweet girl, what a delight you are.’ He was close and his spicy fragrance was heavy on the brocade jacket, infused with some metallic note. She thought about what Nat had said and shivered with disgust as Denzil tentatively looped a stray hair behind her ear, his cornflower blue eyes burning into her. His fingertips brushed her ear lobe and traced the line of her neck and he kissed her exactly where the small acorn was inked. ‘I am drawn to you like a moth to the circle of your light,’ he murmured, touching her neck and collar bone with his lips. ‘He is a coward for leaving you so? I burn for you.’

  Florence found him repulsive as he pressed himself onto her. His probing tongue tasted of fine wine. When he released her, she gasped for air and stepped back, not bothering to disguise her revulsion.

  ‘I sense that you are saving yourself for me. Our wedding night will be a joyful coupling.’

  She was still shocked by the impact of the kiss as he brushed by her to close the still open window. ‘There is a slight coolness in the air this evening my dear, pray, do not take a chill. I shall instruct Holless to ensure that the windows are well sealed against the season’s humours - locked.’ He took her hands in his and brushed them with his lips. ‘I take my leave of you. Shall I send the girl to you, my dear?’ he asked suddenly all balance and normality. She nodded, still recovering herself.

  Denzil closed the door softly and walked a little pulling Holless with him, a crease of anger between his eyes. ‘Find him,’ he hissed ‘and bring him to me. The man has returned and he has been here. I could smell him on her.’

  32

  A Wedding Gift

  ‘Seven days, eh.’ He muttered to himself, as he plucked soft rose thorns from his britches and the more tender parts of his flesh. Just what the hell had he been thinking! He’d gone up there, stinking like God-knows-what and told her that Denzil smelled wrong! She’d every right to think him mad or simple-minded . . . or both! And yet . . . And his whole skin was itching like crazy where the thorns had scratched him. He’d need to wash them. Didn’t want to take a chance on infection . . . Focus! Her expression. Christ! He’d seen the disappointment in her face at what remained unsaid – what he hadn’t managed to say - but what was she expecting? Declarations of undying love after she’d rejected him?

  Seven days to make her change her mind, persuade her that she needed him. He’d been gone a few days and everything had changed. The Martha incident certainly had been a factor but it was like she’d been waiting for him to go away to make her play with Denzil. Was she afraid of finding a way back with him? That he might suddenly be sixty in another age? No. It was something else.

  He had seated himself on a grassy mound just in the summer woodland to gather his breath, lick his cuts and scratches and to pick his clothes free of the remains of the rose trellis. Actually, he reflected, proud of his own newly developed mature reasoning, she’d probably chosen well. From a nothing, she was about to become a lady, and a woman in these times needed all the protection from the world that she could get. Their relationship had been courtesy of a time portal.

  She looked well. She was a little pale but her bronze hair shone without being hidden by a cap. Nat liked looking at her. She was slight and not so tall that she’d stand out in this century. Those green eyes were fierce. She seemed so changed. Was it really all about becoming a lady? He wouldn’t believe that of her – although he’d overheard Pru say that her hot water in baths would draw down fevers and chills. He allowed himself to dwell on an image of Florence in a rose water bath – for a short while.

  What had started as a daring feat deed had ended in fiasco. The rose trellis had seemed a good idea but he hadn’t really thought about how vicious the roses could be and tumbling into the room and landing on her was hardly gallant. His leaving was just as painful – physically! She was in such a hurry to get rid of him. He heard a faint tittering as he left, as his flesh was left on the thorns during his descent. Yeah. Funny. She had a nice laugh though. Didn’t do it often. Not often enough anyway. He wondered if she’d laughed a lot before they landed here. He thought that perhaps not; she was a little . . . intense.

  A sinking feeling of sadness swelled inside him, with the realisation that Florence’s rejection was probably final. In his first months here, before he’d met her, he spent a great deal of time wallowing in thoughts about those things which he would never have again: a football match; TV; novels; records; the occasional crafty spliff; a pint down the pub; nights out with mates; mates; girls who would; contraception; toilet paper; toilets; light at the touch of a switch. He didn’t care that it wasn’t a noble list – apart from the miracle of the NHS - he’d let those memories go. His exile here was for life. And then she’d come into that life and revived every hope and memory. The fact that they’d both tried different trees, on several occasions and nothing had happened, wasn’t encouraging, but then logic suggested that if i
t had happened to them, there were others. And then there was Betty Hudson and Kylie. The poor bloke on the road. These watchers knew how it worked. He’d got no doubt that Montebray was part of the puzzle.

  Once he’d followed the track back to the house, he’d seen her at her window. Most were shuttered but not hers. She’d looked out into the night. His plan had been to tell her about the ruins and the ice house. He’d wanted to say that he’d recognised Denzil’s scent. He’d thought that the true name of Cook would stun her, but all of it had melted away as he stood before her. He’d ached to hold her and was furious with her at the same time - and he’d realised as he stood there, that she’d just think that it was a ruse to stop her marrying Denzil. Cook would never utter a word and so what if Denzil wore some sort of cologne! Florence would laugh at him. Worse, she’d think that he was plucking at straws, trying to find reasons for her to come with him and she might be right. He was stung by what she’d said to him because she was right there as well. What on earth had he got to offer her apart from hardship and back-breaking work. If she didn’t love him - and it seemed that she didn’t - then there was no reason for her to need to be with him. The crazy nature of their companionship was not enough. She was probably making the right decision. Well, as far as everyone else knew, he’d gone. Florence had given him seven days to come up with a better offer and he bloody well would. Nat thought that he would concentrate on taking something substantial to Florence in terms of Denzil’s ‘wrongness’. And so, he’d watch and wait before he spoke to her again. Plenty of time. Seven whole days. No rush.

  The next morning, he heard horses. Few visited Montebray and then only merchants or the seamstress but this was the unmistakable sound of several horses’ hooves. From his hiding place he watched fifteen men gallop into the courtyard. At first, he thought them soldiers, well-armed and riding with the ease of men who were used to working together in a combat unit. Nat recognised the easy familiarity that they had with one another. He also saw something else. They took their orders grudgingly from a young man but there was no respect there. These men were mercenaries bound together by violence and money.

  The lads in the yard tried to stand their ground but many were cuffed or booted as the thugs made themselves at home. The girls instinctively scooted back indoors. Holless appeared and a purse was exchanged followed by pairs of watchful eyes. No doubt it was easy to hire such men in these times. Nat knew why they were there. Within minutes, they’d posted themselves at vantage points around the Hall and grounds. It was one thing to sneak in past Holless, but another to risk being caught by mercenaries who would summarily hang him as a thief. Nat was one man against killers. Suddenly, seven days didn’t seem such a luxury.

  The lads were gathered in the yard but didn’t seem to be getting ready to head to the fields. They had implements with them but Holless was speaking to them, giving them instructions and the group weren’t happy about it. The mercenaries hung together, draped over the cart and leaning on swords. They sneered at the farm-hands and mocked them. The lads were young and they sneaked looks at one another for reassurance in the face of these worldly-wise men with youthful pride injured. Holless led the way towards the edges of the lawns and into the woodland, flanked by the armed men. Nat recognised what this was: a hunting party.

  Running would make him a noisy target in the dry woodland but it took courage to stay still, as he heard them advancing, wishing that he had a couple of camouflage paint sticks. He congratulated himself that he’d freed the old nag who would certainly have given him away. As they trudged steadily nearer to him, now in a line, advancing through the undergrowth, he hid in a direction which he hoped they wouldn’t look – upwards.

  No one had here any cause to detain him or harm him and yet they were strung out like a group of beaters forcing out the game. Holless’ voice slithered out across the line,

  ‘Softly, now! Look for signs of him. This thief will not be far. Find his tracks.’ So. He’d been branded a thief. The slightly better news was that he couldn’t hear any dogs. That would have put pay to any hope of evading the posse. They were almost upon him. He flattened himself against the broad branch, hoping that all eyes would be kept on the ground. He wondered if he still had friends among these callow youths.

  Nat held his breath as they approached, the line of beaters moving slowly by his tree. Ethan paused underneath the sack which he’d hoisted up and Nat moved himself carefully in the canopy, trying to hide himself further, wishing that he’d had the sense to pull the sack up with him. He was high up but the leaves were thin here. Ethan’s eyes spotted the bag and then his eyes followed and met Nat’s. The boy stopped. Then he looked towards Holless beyond him and the strangers either side of him and Nat tensed ready to leap down and silence the boy. Ethan turned his face back up to Nat’s and grinned. He winked, mouthed ‘Luck’ and moved on seamlessly as part of the line. Nat released his breath.

  He stayed perched in the tree until he started to yawn and then descended slowly. Never a good idea to fall asleep in a tree. The search had returned just before dusk, Holless now at the rear of the group, dragging himself back to the Hall. No doubt he was not relishing telling Denzil of his failure. And it must have been Denzil who’d given the order for this, returning from his night-time ride. Holless would never have organised such a man hunt. The mercenaries were surly and irritated. They had not signed up to tramp through woodland – only to terrorise those weaker than themselves. However, the boys were buoyant. They hadn’t wanted to find Nat, it was supper time, and they’d had a day’s adventure away from the fields. Ethan had made no attempt to look up to Nat’s hiding place. Just the opposite. As he neared the tree he threw his arms around the shoulders of the two lads next to him and began to tell them some bawdy joke, the noise of it drawing the attention of the others until they were all well past the danger point.

  During the next two days, Nat stayed in the tree for most of the time, snatching glimpses of the house and witnessing from a distance the preparations of the church for the wedding day. Perched in the branches of the accommodating beech, he’d heard the reedy notes of the primitive organ squeaking from the church, and shuddered at the mangling of the notes. The hours dragged by with Nat becoming increasingly frustrated at never seeing Florence alone.

  He had plenty of time to think about why Denzil had been riding out that night and why had he returned so quickly? He guessed that he had been Denzil’s prey. Now he’d been labelled a thief – a serious hanging offence and Moorcroft had every excuse to hunt him down. On a hunch, he rummaged in his sack of supplies he’d been given. At the bottom, wrapped in an oiled cloth, he discovered a silver communion chalice. Clever, he thought. A thief and a papist! Nat thought that the two together might just hang him. How had it got there? Cook – Kylie! She’d taken it upon herself to stock the bag, reassured him about it and he’d thought her kind. She really had adapted to life here.

  Despite the flattery to his ego that Denzil was actually threatened by him, the tedium and discomfort of outdoor living was punctuated by the further misery of agonising glimpses of Florence, with Denzil her constant companion now, as they promenaded around the grounds. He gave her his arm protectively and he leaned towards her making her smile or laugh. He attended her every need, it seemed. She responded with a demure coquettishness which Nat had no idea she possessed and for which he awarded her an oscar. You’d have thought that she really was a timid young virgin he thought. What a show! And didn’t that man have anything better to do with his time? Watching the performance and feeling increasingly cold and very damp made him very irritable.

  When they embarked on these excursions to the church, they were flanked by the hired band of thugs, who accompanied them casually, not expecting the single figure of Nat Haslet to attack. They were sure that he’d scarpered long ago. They were loud and coarse but Florence seemed barely aware of them, paying attention only to Denzil Moorcroft with remarkable devotion. Nat saw that the men’s close presenc
e to Denzil, was to his advantage. Even then, seven days passed all too quickly.

  On the day of the wedding, physically and mentally exhausted from hiding himself in the woodland, he was already in the organ loft as the music master (hah!) arrived. He had observed the thugs’ lax patrolling habits so that it wasn’t difficult to predict that they wouldn’t be at the church until the wedding party arrived. In any case, the church was the last place they’d expect him to be. It would be his only chance to be anywhere near Florence.

  He’d surprised the organist who clambered into the small loft expecting splendid isolation. For several minutes, Nat had genuinely tried to appeal to the man’s musicianship, explaining that he could play the piece better, while waving a knife to ensure that all was quietly discussed, but it seemed that professional pride was an obstacle here and so when that didn’t work, threats were intimated. Give him his due, the music master was having none of it and started to make a rumpus despite the knife, so Nat hit him hard on the head with a stave torn from the organ loft staircase, and then bound and gagged him with various ropes and fabrics that he’d found in the bell tower. Bending low to the face of the bruised and irate man, he reassured the furious and terrified musician that he wouldn’t be harmed and that he’d be released shortly – as long as he kept still and very, very quiet. The fellow soon sank into sulky resignation and slumped to a stillness with just his blazing eyes making his feelings plain and a small lump rising on his temple, leaving Nat with the instrument to himself. Even Nat smiled at the image he must present: an unlikely musician!

  The idea had come to him as he’d heard this sorry fellow practise. He’d often stood in for Dad’s services in various parishes and had become quite skilled at it. Together with the piano, it was his main instrument at university. Now he took his seat at the keyboards of an organ the like of which no longer existed in his time. There were two things that made this horrific journey to the past worth it and one of them was this incredible Tudor pipe organ. He heard a muffled ‘Hmmmph!’ from the bound man sitting near to his foot pedals. ‘I know. Sorry, mate. They’ll never know it wasn’t you – promise. You’ll thank me.’