Then, when he’d arrived here, he’d been just as alert for bandits in the night or those that would stab you in your sleep for your food. He liked to think that he would have been awake before the killers got near but truthfully, he was woken by a clumsy oaf stumbling over him. He drew his knife and had it at the man’s throat before a sound was uttered.
‘How many others?’ Nat pushed the knife in until it drew blood.
‘Twenty,’ a voice squeaked.
‘Where are they?’
‘I’m the first. I’m to tell them how many . . . Nat?’ the speaker interrupted himself.
Nat grabbed him by the collar and squinted at him in the low light. ‘Jonathan! You stupid little bastard! I told you to go for Parliament,’ he hissed.
‘Aye, well I’m a loyal subject to the King, me.’
‘You’re going to be killed. Who are they after? Fairfax?’
‘Aye. To bring him to the King’s justice. Will you kill me then?’ his voice quavered.
‘No. I’m going to save your life,’ and he turned the hilt of his knife and knocked Jonathan out.
He heard the first sounds of assassins nearing the camp and Nat scrambled quickly to Fairfax, nearby. ‘My lord! Awake! Attack!’ he yelled as the others shot up and the sentries shook themselves alert.
Lord Fairfax himself was on his feet, sword in one hand and dagger in the other, instantly. Nat saw the outline of the assassins sighting the general, moving towards him. Having nothing else, he grabbed a huge branch, charging at them and sweeping them aside with it as he ran. It wouldn’t kill them but it knocked them off balance long enough for Fairfax to take a stand with his inner guard – and Nat who had now collected a sword, found himself standing with his back to Fairfax facing a ring of foes.
‘C’mon, curs! Ye that creep in the night like the Satanic spawn that you surely are! Come into the light if you dare!’
Brave words, thought Nat, given that there were very few of them against a group of twenty or so. Poor odds. The attackers thought so too and smirked at Fairfax, ill-matched teeth grinning at one another as they inched forward. Nat and Fairfax circled around one another, back to back, braced for the attack. Fairfax skilfully skewered one or two of them and Nat managed a few hefty slashes with his sword but thought that they’d be over-run before the attackers started to fall, when a sound out of sight announced the arrival of Sergeant Tomkins with proper soldiers, ‘Sir!’ came the shout.
Fairfax grinned at Nat. ‘Now we’ll see what balls these dogs have.’
Pincered between two fronts, the assassins were less confident and tried to scatter, but they were cut down by Tompkins’ well drilled squad, without any hesitation at all. The sergeant stood before Fairfax when he saw that the enemy was slaughtered. They didn’t bother to take prisoners who would need feeding.
‘Where the fuck have you been Tompkins! Thought that I was a goner for a moment there.’
‘Apologies, my lord. We tracked the bastards from a distance and thought that the sentries would raise the alarm. Got ‘em in the end though - Sir.’ Short, and fat, he looked pleased with himself.
‘Aye. With the help of this lad - Haslet.’ Tompkins threw a suspicious nod, his thick neck barely bending. It was his disposition to hate anyone within ten feet of his master.
‘You did well,’ the General smiled warmly at Nat, ‘and you have my gratitude – which is still worth something even in these times.’
‘Sir.’ Nat stood to attention. ‘It was my honour.’ He found that he meant it.
‘Thank the Lord that you’re more handy with a branch though than a blade, say I. Still, I may have a use for one such as you.’
He was dismissed with a scowl from Tompkins.
Nat pulled the blanket from Jonathan’s face to find him conscious and wide-eyed. ‘Will they kill me now?’
‘Probably,’ boomed Tompkins who was standing above them both. ‘Tell me quick, Haslet, who is this – and the truth mind. I’ve a nose for lies.’ He tapped it.
‘Tell him Jonathan.’
And Jonathan explained that he’d joined for the King but almost immediately regretted it. He found that he didn’t like fighting and he wanted to go home. The assassins had sent him in as a scout, not wanting to risk their own lives but he’d tripped across Nat, his friend from Montebray and . . .’
Tompkins stopped him as he started to babble. ‘How old are you boy?’
‘Nearly fourteen, sir.’
Nat recalled clearly being told that the lad was at least fifteen but he said nothing and kept a blank face. The boy understood what was at stake.
‘Old enough to make a man’s decisions, then?’
Jonathan sensed his doom. ‘Aye, sir.’ He hung his head.
‘Then, if you could make any choice now, what would it be, lad?
‘Not to have made my choice, sir. I want my mother and father.’
Tompkins turned away to conceal a smile. ‘You have until the sun is at mid-day to go. If I see you again, I will run you through myself.’ He stormed off to deal with the sentries.
When Jonathan lifted his head, he was grinning. ‘Always works with a soldier. Mention their mams and they’re soft as clay.’
‘Cheeky little sod! That man’s just saved your life.’ Nat shook his head. ‘Hungry?’
‘Always.’
Nat shared his rations with Jonathan as they talked. ‘So, what news of Montebray?’
‘You mean Florence I am thinking.’ Nat resisted cuffing him.
‘I suppose I do.’
‘Nothing of her. I did not return to that place. Glad to be out of the reach of the likes of Holless. Did she hook him then? I can think of no other reason that you are here. Ethan said that Pru thought that it was her plan.’
‘Yes. She married him.’
‘God’s body!’ he swore. ‘That’s a step up and no mistake.’
‘She . . . Yes. She’s the Mistress of Montebray. I wish her well.’
The lad spat out a piece of grit in the bread. ‘It’s to be hoped that he treats her better than poor Pru. Takes his pleasures where he pleases, does Moorcroft and none too gentle about it neither.’ He chewed steadily.
‘What do you mean?’ Nat asked. The boy was too busy eating to reply immediately and so Nat slapped his back hard and the food shot out.
‘Hey!’
‘How did Moorcroft treat Prudence?’ Nat’s eyes bored into the young man’s.
Jonathan sulked, ‘Ethan didn’t share details, he loves her see, but we saw her bruises and saw Cook trying to heal them. Ethan says he’s the spawn of the devil. Perhaps he’ll be different with a wife.’
Nat knew that he wouldn’t be. The elastic was twanging hard towards Florence. He calculated fast. If he went now, he’d be a deserter and he had enough problems. A solution came to him and he approached Fairfax’s position where Tompkins halted him with a fat hand on his chest. The man was built like a barrel.
‘Let me speak to Lord Fairfax, sergeant. I have useful information for him.’
Tompkins expressed his reluctance towards that idea until Fairfax heard the noise and told Nat to approach.
‘My gratitude does not stretch so very far that it will save you from Tompkins forever, Haslet. Speak quickly.’
‘My lord, you are in need of supplies? Then, I know of a place, well hidden in a valley. I think that no soldiery has discovered it yet and its supplies are plentiful. If we go there, I am sure that the master of the Hall will be happy to feed and water the men.’
‘Its name?’
‘Montebray Hall, my lord. Master Denzil Moorcroft lives there.’
‘Never heard of it or him – which is a good sign. How far say you?’
‘Less than a day, sir. You will be sure of a warm welcome there for sure.’
‘Tompkins!’ he yelled.
Tompkins yelled, close to his ear, rarely far from his master. ‘SIR!’ Fairfax was not as amused as his sergeant.
‘Sound for decamp. Te
ll the men that we will eat hot food within the day.’
Most of them had overheard and were already set for the march, and supper at Montebray. One of his officers started to protest that they knew nothing of this place and it could be a trap but Fairfax swatted him away like an irritating fly. ‘Oh, and Tompkins?’
‘Sir?’
‘Find Haslet here, a sword,’ Fairfax enjoyed wiping the smile off the sergeant’s face whenever he could. There was just a fraction of a second when Tompkins clearly thought that his lordship had gone mad and that for him to hand over a blade to this . . . wastrel, was tantamount to recklessness. With great restraint, he withdrew a blade from the officer whose watch had been breached, and handed it to Nat, pausing to check that was what he’d meant?
‘Yes, yes, Tompkins. Give it to him,’ another pause, ‘Well, you didn’t think I was going to leave you with a weapon that you don’t deserve, did you man?’ he fired at the young officer.
‘And Tompkins, should he look like he is about to better me, kill ‘im!’
‘With pleasure, sir,’ Tompkins’ nostrils flared.
‘Take your stance, Haslet!’ ordered Lord Fairfax. ‘Let us see your metal! I like to know my men’s strengths.’
Nat instantly regretted the lie that he’d ever wielded a sword but he copied the man’s pose. They stepped around one another like mating mantis and then Nat lunged at his opponent, eager to impress. The General parried the move easily, laughing as he stepped aside. Nat had Tompkins behind him now and he distinctly heard the man quietly mutter, ‘Utter Shite!’ as he passed. He was hardly going to be elevated in the world if his Lordship just toyed with him. He watched the man carefully and managed to block the two easy strikes which were aimed at him. He saw that they were probing rather than dangerous and he offered back a thrust and a swipe of his own that reduced Fairfax’s grin.
‘Still Shite!’ hissed Tompkins behind his ear. The man was very irritating.
Nat shot forward, thinking that a flurry of attacks might help. After all, he had twenty years on the general but Fairfax parried with ease, simply stepping back to bring Nat on to him. He was confident right up to the moment when he tripped backwards over a hidden root and fell heavily on to his arse. Nat stepped forward, sword in hand, grinning in triumph, only to find himself unexpectedly lying beside his Lordship, Tompkins having delivered a swift kick and a swipe which removed the sword from his hand and was now holding out his arm to help his lordship up.
‘I said IF HE BETTERS ME Tompkins!’ roared Lord Fairfax taking Tompkins’ Tompkins' arm and attempting to restore his dignity as his sergeant’s round face could barely hide his glee.
‘Aye Sir. But you said nothing about if you fell flat on your arse.’
A gasp from the officers warned Nat to stay where he was until Fairfax himself helped him up.
‘You are a fucking clown these days are you not Tompkins?’ he muttered.
‘I am that Sir. A fucking clown.’ He was still standing to attention. ‘But a clown that has saved your life five times now, I think – Sir.’
‘Yes. Although I make it four. I was never in danger here.’ He turned to Nat. ‘You did not tell me the truth, man. I doubt that you have ever wielded a blade before. Tompkins, give him a fucking pike!’
‘Oh, Aye, Sir. A proper chuckle that, Sir.’ His twitching grin had dissolved. ‘You! With me!’ and he strode off with Nat in tow, to the raucous laughter of Thomas Fairfax.
Sergeant Tompkins did not warm to Nat it seemed. At first light, he kicked him awake from the blanket he’d wrapped himself in, sitting over him on a log.
‘I don’t know your game arse-worm but I will. Thomas Fairfax is the best man who ever lived and I hold his life dearer than my own. If you mean him to harm him at this Montebray, you’ll not live long enough to see it done, for I am sharper than you and several times as deadly.’
‘I promise you Sergeant, I mean Lord Fairfax no harm at all.’
38
Banishing All Doubts
There was no doubt about it, Denzil Moorcroft liked an occasion. He congratulated himself on the display of his wealth and finery. Never had the hall shone so brightly nor contained so many sweaty bodies in infrequently washed clothes. Every candle-maker in the district had rejoiced in the occasion by selling their best bees’ wax candles to The Hall. ‘Conspicuous wealth’ — in another age, thought Florence. But even she, with her growing fear and intense loathing of Denzil, couldn’t deny that on this evening, only this excessive wealth could have lit the hall so breathtakingly beautifully. It seemed that her new husband wanted to parade her as the new confirmation of his glory.
Denzil checked the book each day. If it did not say anything which interested him, he remembered it in harsh and private torment. Even so, she would not write what he desired. She gave him nothing because he had already taken so much from her and it gave her some quiet satisfaction to deny him at least that. Florence found bland uncomprehending answers to any pointed question and had not once blinked when he tried to trick her.
There was the morning when he had been humming the song she’d sung while plucking the chickens. He’d made some reference to the excessive number of beetles in the room and that night had attacked her viciously for not keeping better house and having more control over the vermin. Florence said nothing but counted the bruises blooming on her back and legs. It was an appropriate song to recall. As well as her defiance of him, she felt quite sure that her survival depended on her silence. She wondered how long she could endure this before she wrote down everything that she knew. And then she thought what worth she would still be to him once she did. It was exquisite torture, finely targeted at her unique situation. She began to recite a mantra to herself. ‘Psychopaths can’t have access to power.’
On the morning of the revels, she’d come upon him in close conversation with Holless.
‘Then it would seem that we have no choice,’ he hissed, slamming his glove down on the floor, ‘Invite them to join us — but secure the upper rooms and tell Cook that you will be supervising any supplies that they take from us. I suppose that we have no hope of payment?’
‘It is doubtful, Denzil.’
There. Florence had heard it again. How had this steward permission to call his master by his name? Like Holless, Florence was learning to collect secrets in this house. She kept out of sight.
‘Mmm. Then a careful eye should be kept on our goods. Hide the more valuable products in the lower cellars. See to it yourself, mind. Go now! Lock the rooms — make my chamber fast immediately. And Spofforth and his men?’
‘Paid them up. They were glad to be away at the first sign of Fairfax,’ Holless sneered.
Florence entered the room, Holless barely acknowledging her as he went past, pushing her aside with undue familiarity.
Denzil brightened, ‘Ah, my dear. It would seem that we have guests for our revels! Sir Thomas, Lord Fairfax no less, has arrived at our gates, requesting provisions for his cause. It seems that he will be joining us with some of his men. Is that not a sweet surprise!’ he snarled, taking her cold hand and dragging her to the fire. ‘You must dress in your very best — your new gown I think – and you should dance with them. I doubt they will have had the joy of the company of a lady of your charms for many a long day. Lord Fairfax is a rising star.’
‘Sir Thomas Fairfax?’ her voice was barely inflected. She spoke as little as she could get away with to Denzil.
‘Yes. He who once sat at the right hand of the King but now allies with Cromwell. Rumour has it that he may one day be the voice of Parliament. A man of influence and power. He is en route to some confrontation or other — which I care not – but we would do well to welcome him to our home. He is a man who is rising in the estimation of many.’
‘I do not know the name.’ Florence was trying to recall the name from her history books.
‘Well, of course you do not! Such tender ears as yours need not the poison of tales of bloody battle dr
ipping into them.’ He had reached out and was caressing her ear lobe before tugging harshly on the ear-ring.
Florence winced but did not move. Reacting never helped.
‘I shall wear the emerald and dance with all you require me to. Your pardon, husband. I must tend to my duties if the Hall is to be dressed satisfactorily.’ She wrenched herself from his grasp.
‘Trot along, my dearest. I shall join you later.’
Florence was learning not to be nauseated by his oily words which he mixed liberally with petty cruelties.
Denzil had insisted that they continue with the event despite the ever-threatening proximity of the war itself and supplies used. At first, she’d hoped that this might be some remnant of regard for his people, wanting them to have at least one care-free evening away from their fears but had quickly understood that it was actually a show-piece event for Denzil himself and now he had an audience appropriate for his ego. He was performing in his own theatrical production.
As soon as the company of Roundheads had wandered wearily out of the forest seeking supplies for their march, Denzil had taken the opportunity to ingratiate himself with Lord Fairfax, even riding out to greet him. The man seemed less inclined to warm to Denzil but, a good leader of men, he’d seen the longing in his men’s faces, hoping for a night or two of warmth and comfort at Christmas time. The main corps was tented in Moorcroft’s fields. Fairfax’s scouting group had billeted themselves around the stables, scrubbing themselves up as best they could, in the hope of attending the revels themselves. Of course, his lordship would have Denzil’s chamber.
The men had drawn straws for who would stand guard. Tompkins had posted a goodly number of sentries around the Hall, all of whom he promised a feast later if they did their job well and threatened to disembowel them, if they did not. Disgruntled but sanguine, they took up their spots more terrified of Tompkins’ revenge than tempted by the promise of good food.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 36