Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles

by Jayne Hackett

  Florence searched his face and his voice for meaning.

  Denzil’s smile was a little less broad but his tone remained light. A grin and then a pause. ‘Now, as to Holless. He slapped his thighs, ‘he will be glad to serve you my dear. I have instructed him to do so and I have also explained that I will not have you burdened with any unnecessary detail. I would not have you overly tired by your responsibilities, my love. Have no fears. Holless will guide you and support and serve you. He will be a constant . . . presence as you take up your duties as Mistress of Montebray.’

  She looked up and tried to form an argument to Holless as a chaperon but he pre-empted her.

  ‘I knew that you would understand, my dear. And it is my wish.’ She closed her mouth. The discussion was over. ‘Now, I must away to my business on the estate and you will want to meet with our eager Steward.’ It amused him to play this game. He stood and gave her a short bow. ‘Until later, my love,’ and kissing her hand he left her in the sunshine, surrounded by the debris of their breakfast.

  She stood to relieve her discomfort and gazed out into the garden. A girl plucked a chicken and Florence looked at her wistfully. She saw the labourers gathering in the yard and her thoughts flew to Nat. All through the night she had kept him at bay, not wanting to remember how it was when they had been together; the tenderness between them in contrast to the . . . brutality. She closed her eyes as the tears seeped out. She could almost feel the warmth of his chest beneath her hands and the softness of his lips on her body. She tried hard not to sob.

  ‘Mistress Florence,’ sneered Holless, ‘Master Moorcroft has instructed me to give you further keys to the household.’ Holless had entered the room as silent as a ghost with a voice bitter as gall.

  Florence dried the tears and turned to face him.

  She started to speak but he interrupted,

  ‘The Master does not wish me to overwhelm you in these early days and has told me quite sharply to take great care not to burden you.’ She saw his smirk, ‘So, here is the larder key – Cook has the other one. Fear not, Mistress. I shall carry all the others until such time as the Master instructs me to the contrary.’ Was he actually smiling?

  ‘But, I am quite able . . . I am Mistress of Montebray ,’ she pouted.

  ‘No.’ He came towards her until he was too close for comfort and there was no respect in the distance between them. Florence did not step back, despite the rankness of his breath. Holless leaned down to her and spoke bitterly, ‘Did you think all would be well here, little bitch! You bought yourself a marriage which you may well live to rue.’ And he turned his back on her and walked out. Florence added Holless to those on whom she would exact revenge.

  35

  A Book of Days

  When she was young, she remembered laughing at her mother’s ‘telephone voice’. She recalled the sudden formality and correctness that snapped into it when she spoke to someone not family, the trilling little laugh and the platitudes that were never part of her mother’s lexicon with her daughter; it sounded alien to her. Her mother had smiled and told her that we each have a different voice for each person that we speak to and over the years, Florence had observed it to be true.

  She listened to herself as she spoke to parents, friends and later, lovers - and her mother was right. Now, she had time to reflect on those lessons from her former life and she believed that the reason for it was that we are never the same person twice. Florence didn’t know if she was an accumulation of lies or if each version of her, was a facet of her soul. In this time, she was losing track of the lies and the truths she hid.

  In this past year, she had been a daughter of 2020; a refugee; a friend and then lover and now a wife and - it was true - a dupe and victim. All of these things she was and none. Somewhere there, was the memory of her true self, packaged deep within boxes, waiting to be unwrapped but for now shut tight, in order to survive intact. It helped to focus on who she was with and who she wanted to be, with them. Was that the true nature of a person: that they changed, grew, diminished according to the events in their life? And what of her? She had changed. Was she stronger, kinder, more careful of others? She hoped so. Each new episode demanded that she adapt. Her act of defiance was never to reveal any part of her true self to Denzil. She would give him only a grey reflection of who she was and he would never see a glimmer of Florence Brock. It was a small victory.

  During the day, in view of the servants, she was solicitously attended to by Denzil. He enquired as to what activity she was engaged in and whether all was to her satisfaction. He kissed her hand and he shared meals with her. Denzil wanted her to reassure him that the servants were respectful – Holless especially – and he smiled when she said they were. He bought her gifts: rich cloth and a small pocket book for her own use, bound in fine leather.

  She couldn’t bear to be near him and tried to be as far from him as she could and took to wandering around the Hall and the gardens, trying not to let her imagination dwell on the suffering she endured. When she’d lived here - at Locksley - she had barely noticed the building itself but now, she took pleasure in the architecture, and looked very carefully at the timbers which were the bones of the Hall. She marvelled at the utility of the build. The wattle-and-daub was mud, of course, but it was bound by anything at hand: feathers, horse-hair, bird skeletons, wool. Whatever was waste, was bound into the walls of this house. She had no doubt now that she was aware of a sensation as her fingertips brushed over the exposed wood.

  And it was all so very flammable. She thought that it would burn very well. It remained an option.

  Supper, when Denzil was at home, was taken in the Great Hall and despite Cook’s best efforts, she could barely tempt Florence’s appetite. She lost weight but the wine was always good and she found some comfort there. Denzil denied her even that mercy and Holless stopped refilling her glass. ‘What an excellent repast! Please tell Cook that I said so, my dear.’ Denzil patted his firm flat stomach as he dabbed his mouth with the napkin.

  She snorted quietly in reply, allowing herself small acts of contempt.

  ‘But you have eaten so little! Was it not to your taste?’ He was ever solicitous.

  ‘I . . . have been feeling a little queasy of late.’

  His sharp eyes focused, ‘Ah. Do you think . . . may we hope . . ?’

  ‘No. I am not with child, husband.’ God knows she’d hoped for it. She thought perhaps that pregnancy might give her some respite from his brutality but hoping had not made it so. She thought about her own body and that she’d not had her period since she’d arrived in this bloody time. At first, she’d thought that it was the shock of it all; that her system had just shut down in protest but the periods didn’t resume. Denzil rarely left her alone - and yet she didn’t become pregnant. Perhaps she did have a problem – and perhaps he did.

  She raised the matter very sensitively with Prudence. ‘Pru, you are close to me. You know his . . . tastes . . . you have never been with child.’ It was difficult to ask.

  Pru couldn’t meet her eyes, ‘No. I wondered also. He took no care to . . . avoid . . . It is strange is it not that neither of us . . . ?’

  ‘It is and it points to one conclusion, I think.’ Florence almost gloated.

  ‘Aye. God is indeed displeased with us.’ She hung her head.

  ‘What! No! God is not displeased with us! We are not at fault here, Prudence. How could you think so!’ she was aghast.

  ‘Our sin . . .’

  Florence ran to the girl and held her arms until Pru was forced to look into her face. ‘Listen to me, Prudence Southey. We have no blame in this. None! This man is perverse. He is no proper man, only an abuser. The only sin is his! If your God is punishing anyone, it’s him. Am I clear!’

  ‘That is what my Ethan said. It was all I could do to hold him from trying to kill the man,’ she confessed. ‘But it is what the ministers do say. It is women who are sinful and who bring the temptations of the flesh. From Eve’s disobedien
ce - it is why we do suffer the pangs of childbirth.’

  Florence was stunned. How could this beautiful girl believe such crap!

  ‘No. It’s not true. Read your Bible.’ And then Florence remembered that the girl was illiterate. ‘It has beautiful things to say about the love between a man and woman. These preachers are men! Pru,’ she was gentle now, ‘not all men are like . . . him.’ She shuddered.

  Pru gave her a tweak of a grin. ‘I do know that also Mistress.’

  Florence caught the mischief. ‘Oh! You and Ethan . . .’

  ‘Sshh! Never speak of it! I would be branded…’

  Florence sat on the settle and held Pru’s hands. ‘I swear, Prudence. Not a word. I am glad that one of us has the joy of it,’ she sighed. Pru squeezed her mistress’ hands and then stood as she heard Denzil’s footsteps on the stair. He came into the chamber all smiles and charm. He waved Prudence away and locked the door behind him. Florence did not have possession of that key. He seemed to want to talk. Florence thought it was the better option.

  ‘I have been thinking about uses for your pocket book yet. Have you scribbled in it yet? Show me.’ Florence went to the book on the side table and gave it to him, like a child handing in homework. She’d guessed that he’d want to see it. ‘I see you have made notes about recipes and linens and . . . what is this? Plants and flowers. Is it an interest of yours, wife?’

  ‘It is husband,’ he liked her to called him that. She seized an opportunity, ‘I very much enjoy the garden and I am interested in the range of plants there. I would welcome the opportunity to visit other gardens where I might find further ideas to inspire us.’

  ‘I am sure that you would,’ Denzil smirked. ‘Ah, if only I could spare your sweet presence from my side. Fear not, I shall bring you more blossoms from my travels.’

  She tried not to look crestfallen.

  ‘Tell me Florence, how do you enjoy the trees in our grounds?’

  It was a casual comment but every nerve vibrated with alarm.

  ‘Very much. Their shade is most welcome and I like to see their stately changes throughout the seasons.’ She was as alert as a small prey animal.

  ‘Mmm. I am fond of trees myself. It seems that we have much more in common Florence than I’d dared to hope.’

  She hated to hear her name on his lips.

  ‘Do you know, I think that you might put your little book to better use.’

  Another game?

  ‘I believe that you might write down your thoughts – much as you did in those charming notes that you wrote on my stolen paper. Let me think: you might write about your feelings, your hopes, your dreams – particularly those! What do you dream about Florence? Do you dream of towns and cities with great buildings, of family and friends, of other times? Do you dream of trees?’

  She had stopped all movement and dared not look away.

  ‘I think that you do. Perhaps we might journey together and examine some of the great trees in the park. There are many you know. Some of them are so ancient that their bellies have split – large enough for a man or a woman to enter! It is really quite diverting to go inside one of these timeless trees.’

  She trembled. What did Denzil know about the trees as portals? She would never willingly reveal anything to Denzil Moorcroft; he wouldn’t know what she knew. Was he talking about cities in this time or some other time? What did he know? It took a great deal of control not to feel dizzy as shock waves hit her. What had Nat said? ‘He smells wrong.’ And Nat had meant that literally. Denzil smelled modern - and it wasn’t the cologne. Nat had been right because there was something very odd about Moorcroft that couldn’t be explained by his easy cruelty or malice. The lightening hit her. He desired her knowledge! That was why he’d married her. What she didn’t understand was why he hadn’t beaten it out of her already. Perhaps it was simply a game to him. She was certain of one thing: Denzil must never know about time travel. Psychopaths should not be handed power.

  ‘No thoughts about the trees, Florence? Ah well. Write in your book, should you have an idea of interest to me. I shall enjoy reading it. Perhaps an interesting thought would be like a lullaby to me and soothe me to sleep quickly.

  It was both a threat and a promise.

  ‘Now, let me tell you something of a dilemma that I have been considering. This harsh conflict which so divides our realm must make one consider where one’s loyalty lies. Of course, an Englishman would wish to support His Majesty – his is God’s anointed - but my strong sense is that Charles Stuart simply cannot prevail against the insistence of Parliament for their rights. I fear for His Majesty’s bodily safety. I cannot tell whether his reign will continue . . . intact,’ he chuckled. ‘And General Cromwell and his officers are so very persuasive, do you not think? So, I believe that they must have our support – for a while - if our little home is to survive. What are your thoughts, my dear? It is a very difficult diplomatic tightrope to tread is it not?’

  Florence was certain now. Denzil knew exactly how this war would end and what would happen. What he didn’t know was if she knew too. She played the only card she could.

  ‘I am not a student of politics, husband. The ways of men, battles and fighting, do not fall within my sphere of understanding. I too hope for His Majesty but will follow your governance on such matters. My small world is that of the linen chest and larder.’ She couldn’t resist the jibe.

  ‘What a dutiful wife you are my dear. I am gratified that you take your marriage vows earnestly. So, come. Let’s to bed dear wife and we shall see if you have the Lord’s blessing of fertility.’

  She had angered him.

  He liked her to lie still next to him after he was sated - which she did despite great discomfort. Once he was asleep, she risked sliding out from the bed and stood by the window looking out over the garden and into the forest. Denzil Moorcroft had bound her to him through marriage because he suspected what she was but the most interesting element of it was that he knew about time travel before Florence arrived. There was something about her acorn tattoo which both he and Hugh Gilbert were interested in.

  How could Gilbert have known? She wondered again, who this Hugh had been. She began to think that he had been no friend to Moorcroft. How could he have known about the tattoo – about her? She’d never met . . . Ah. Time-travel. Her world turned upside down again. In these dark moments, she gave herself permission to think about Nat who had come to find her once, had tried to warn her despite the peril to his life, and might yet return. If he did not, she promised herself that she would escape this prison and she would look for him and never let him go again.

  36

  Somebody’s Shilling

  The pungency of woodland dampness, filled the night as he trudged towards the hope of wood smoke and a night’s shelter. Each step took him further away from heartache but he carried it with him as he thought of what his future would be on this new lone path. The elastic which held him to Florence was stretched taut and he wondered when it would finally snap. Nat’s tread was slow and steady; there was little to rush for, now that Denzil and Holless thought him long gone. Florence had achieved her aim and was Mistress of Montebray. She was fine. He didn’t have to worry about her. She was a strong woman of her own century. Now it was the question of his future.

  He’d survived here for a year before her but it had been just that - survival. Through Florence and the friendships at Montebray, he learned that he also needed companionship. He really didn’t thrive by bread alone. He took stock. He was literate, of course – valuable here. He could play music – useful. His carpentry earned him a living but it was an itinerant existence. Finally, he reminded himself that he knew how this bloody war would go. He was physically fit, restored after some months of labour and hearty eating; he was in very rude health, compared to many that he’d seen.

  Could he use his knowledge of the future to his advantage – always assuming that that future would now happen? Maybe he could recall which great invent
ors were alive and ride on their coat-tails into fame and fortune? What use would he be to them? Their genius was genius in any era – it didn’t require him. In any case, he could only remember Isaac Newton – and he was still a child. No. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, the answer stared him in the face: Nat was an experienced soldier who was in the middle of a war. Obvious.

  The war then and to sign up with . . . ? Cromwell would win but the victories were brutal and, in the very end, The Commonwealth would be succeeded by the Restoration and those who’d betrayed the King, punished. Nat wondered if he’d live that long. He would have to be a soldier of fortune then. He’d go with Parliament but make damned sure that he removed himself from those sympathies well before Charles II was restored. At least he knew that much. As a foot-soldier, he’d be at greater risk but it couldn’t be helped; he’d be better with a pike than a sword.

  He’d long ago regretted setting the nag free and his feet were killing him, so that he was relieved when he arrived at the edge of a village where an inn was well-lit and busy. The Parliament Oak, he saw and blew out his cheeks. The trees were a constant background. He wondered how far he’d travelled and how far away that elastic was now stretched. That way madness lay. Move on. It gave him some pleasure to think of her as mistress of the place – even if it was at the price of being Denzil’s wife. Nat was sure that if his instincts were right about the man, then Florence would find it out. She’d have a plan, know what to do. No. He shouldn’t worry about her. She knew exactly what she was doing. Clever woman.

  The warmth of the inn was mostly from the tightly packed bodies populating the single room and lighting it with their rosy faces. While drink made friends of many, strangers were still potential enemies and so he slid unobtrusively towards a space on a bench, with his back to the wall. The room didn’t quite fall silent but there was distinct interest in him, ears straining when the serving wench asked what he’d like. He curried favour when he tipped his head towards his neighbour and growled, ‘I’ll have what he’s having.’ The man acknowledged him with a nod and so Nat pushed his luck. ‘Is the food worth the eating, friend?’