Tompkins and his core of bodyguards would, of course, remain with Fairfax himself and that meant that they would also attend the revels. Initially, Denzil had worried that Fairfax would condemn the feast as ungodly but it seemed that his lordship was by political persuasion for Parliament but by nature a lover of a good party, quietly glad that his lady wife was keeping her very quiet Puritan fast far away in Yorkshire. Fairfax thought that the banning of Christmas was a foolish act which could only cause a violent reaction if denied the people of England.
He kept his peace about it. The men washed and tidied up as best they could, looking forward to an evening of home comforts where war could be banished for a short while. Nat had expected to be one of those who remained outside but it seemed that Fairfax had offered four or five of them to bolster the musicians, and Moorcroft had graciously accepted.
Denzil had expressed his strong expectations that Florence produce the best from the servants and she wanted to oblige for all of the wrong reasons. She congratulated herself that she had done well to allow Cook a free hand in the feast. Once she’d explained the concept of a running buffet, the cook had grasped the idea very quickly and produced a miracle, enthusiastically keen on people serving themselves, the masters excepted, so that she could have food ready in advance. Florence couldn’t help thinking that it looked rather like a Hogwarts’ feast with its spectacular displays. There were towers of foods that she didn’t recognise and the smells from the kitchen tempted even her poor appetite. She’d thank Cook later and give her a day’s leisure — if she’d accept it. The woman seemed to have no family to visit.
The musicians’ gallery, high and narrow above the east end of the hall, was swathed in green and red swags: hollies and ivies were heavy with red and white berries dripping from the bannister. There were thick ropes of sharp yellow brooms, illuminating the woodwork, all designed to both impress and to honour their significant guest. It reminded Florence for a moment of her childhood bedroom, hung with tiny LED lights, banishing fears in the night. She could never afford to dwell on those memories but she took time to absorb the prettiness of it all, her desolation momentarily lifting; it was so lovely.
The musicians were clumsily arranging themselves in the gallery, trying to shuffle along the narrow landing while attempting to tune and set up their wooden instruments amidst raucous banter. There was the making of an impromptu rehearsal and their leader was making his wishes clear by barking above the good-humoured cacophony. Florence allowed herself a little tapping of the foot as the rhythm of the tunes reached her.
‘We’ll begin with some lute and tambour. Some light simple folk-tunes that folk will know and enjoy. Tom, you’ll remember for me, will you?’ Florence froze in her position by the long table at the opposite end of the hall, hidden in the shadow of the gallery. She focused on the minstrels, distant and high above, her eyes boring into the back of the man conducting them, with his black, unkempt hair.
Nat! He’d come back for her. Had he? Dear God. Denzil! He’d kill him.
With the uncanny sense of one being watched, Nat turned slowly and looked down from the gallery to the single figure of a woman half in shadow.
‘But soft. What light from yonder window breaks . . ?’ she breathed to herself and stepping out of the balcony’s shade, she aimed a slow wide smile at him which lit the void between them.
Nat stared, expressionless, his eyes boring into hers. He found himself looking for signs of damage. Without responding to Florence, he turned to another fellow, asking him to lead the others and he disappeared from above.
Florence tensed for a moment, knowing that he was making his way to her and not knowing whether to meet him or to run away in shame. The minstrels, ribald to a man, struck up a hearty tune which matched his footfall, as he set off. They all bellowed and he shouted back an oath which made them laugh all the harder. There he was, feet away from her, emerging from a dark doorway. Instinctively they both retreated into the dark space beneath the overhanging balcony and stood face to face.
Even in this short time, he was changed. His thick curling hair was now swept back from his face in a soldier’s fashion, showing his weathered tan. He wore the protective leathers of the soldier’s uniform but she saw that there was fine work in the tailoring of it and the tooling of the leather, despite the repairs of tears and patches. This had been an officer’s clothing — a Royalist’s – taken in battle. The soft moulded jacket wore him easily and he moved with an assurance that she’d not expected. Here was a man in his element. His boots were fine and expensive and like the others, he wore a badge — a favour in his hat band and one stitched to his sword belt crossing his torso. She wondered why there was no sword in it. Clutching a sheaf of music tightly in his left fist, he made a knee to her.
‘Mistress . . . Moorcroft,’ his voice was husky and he had to clear his throat and repeat himself. He’d seen the slight tremble in her hands before she’d clasped them together to still them. They were both wary and as Florence opened her mouth to speak, he tilted his head slightly, as a serving maid appeared with yet another dish.
‘And where is your husband, madam?’ the knife hit its mark.
‘He is with Sir Thomas I believe,’ and she composed herself with a small curtsey of reply. She raised her voice so that anyone might hear it and stepped into the light, ‘I look forward to hearing your music at our revels this evening. I have come to see if I might review the tunes with you so that they please my husband and our honoured guest?’ She saw the flicker of pain in his eyes as she spoke of Denzil.
He chuckled, his voice equally light and clear, ‘Aye, Madam, but you must indulge us; we are but humble amateur players, soldiers all. Our rude efforts are at your disposal and at that of your household this night.’ And at this, the players burst into a loud rendition of an earthy tune which Florence had caught some of the servants singing and warned them about it before Holless heard them. The words had something to do with Cromwell’s predilection for forbidden fruit! Not a tune to let Fairfax overhear either.
Nat smiled for her alone, ‘Perhaps we might withdraw into the garden Mistress for a final breath of air before the night closes in? We might more usefully discuss your queries beyond the noise of THAT RABBLE!’ He gestured rudely behind his back to the barracking orchestra who returned the gesture with bawdy jeers.
Florence inclined her head graciously and led the way, conscious that he was just a step behind her, within reach. So near. Grabbing a thick blanket for a shawl, she walked him to the long avenue where there was a stone seat at the far end. The night air, already crisp, fogged their breath, which came heavily, hanging in the silver light. She wanted to walk away from the ears of the house and have him alone, to herself. Neither he nor she spoke but that electric thread pulsed between them. One turn and she could be in his arms. At the end of the avenue, she froze, suddenly entirely afraid that she’d misinterpreted his presence here, just as she’d been wrong about so much this past year.
He stepped so close that his clothes brushed hers, his voice soft and clear behind her. He didn’t know what to say to this woman he loved who had given herself to another. He cleared his throat, ‘So I thought that we’d begin with ‘Simon and Garfunkel and throw a little Lennon and McCartney in there. What do you think Florrie? I’ve taught them the tunes and adapted them so that they work for oboe and tabor. Even adapted Whiter Shade of Pale. Works well. Very Bach. Of course, I’ll be with them or they’d all play at their own beat and we’d never be able to dance. But if you’d rather . . . ’ He was suddenly nervous and despite his earlier control, he’d begun to babble.
He’d said her name aloud and it banished all of Florence’s doubts. ‘Oh, Nat. Why have you come back?’ it sounded like a reproach. ‘I hate him.’ She swivelled to face him with fierce brimming eyes. He’s a monster. I’m so scared, Nat.’
He wanted to throw his arms around her, to save her and take her away from this living nightmare. If she’d made a mistake, he could f
orgive her. But he paused, shocked by her words. There were issues to settle. ‘Hello Nat. How are you? How strange to see you here disguised as a musician-soldier! How’s your life going?’ She might have said any of these things.
When he spoke, there was irritation in his voice. ‘Do you think that just for once, you might think of something . . . nice to say to me? Something that wasn’t all about you and your stuff! That you might be actually interested in my life.’ He’d expected her to melt into his arms with gratitude. Absence makes the heart and all that! Same Florence. Nothing changed.
She stopped him, shaking her head violently, anxious that he understood her. ‘No. No. You don’t see. I’m scared of what he’ll do to you if he knows that you’re here. Nat, he’ll kill you . . . and me,’ she added as an after-thought. ‘I think . . . he’s a psychopath,’ she hissed in horror, expecting him to be horrified by her revelations.
‘They don’t have psychos here. They have rich, powerful men, priests, witches or Kings. That’s it. All do pretty much what they like.’
‘He’s mad,’ she whispered.
‘You think!’
‘Nat! This is serious! He can kill us if he chooses — on a whim! You have no idea of the control he has over people. And he’s wealthy. I don’t even know where his money comes from but I think that perhaps . . .’
‘Don’t worry about me, Florence, I’m protected by Fairfax and his men. Saved his life. He owes me.’ He smiled as if faintly embarrassed by this admission. ‘He’s a good man. So, the thing is, Moorcroft can’t touch me. Denzil needs Fairfax’s influence or he might find his lands full of lots more battalions all of which will strip him bare and take the lads to the war. Seems that Denzil has got the right of it and can see which way it’s going. And we know for a fact, don’t we?’
Nat didn’t understand. How could he? He didn’t know what Denzil was capable of and how very little he concerned himself for either cause in this war. Florence was annoyed with herself for not making him understand. She tried again, ‘He doesn’t care about any of that, Nat. He’s got secrets. Something that gives him wealth and power and it’s not his estate income. Holless is his . . . creature, and he’s utterly vile and ruthless. There’s something else: I think that he knows something about me.’
Nat paled. ‘Have you told him?’
‘Not a word — about you either.’ She needed something to give this man whom she’d discarded so callously, ‘I never will. But he tries to trick me, mentions things that only we would know about. He knows. He may even be like us,’ she whispered in dread.
‘Christ!’
‘We’re just not safe. You have to get away, Nat. Holless will know it’s you and . . .’
‘They tried to kill me on the day that I left. Denzil rode after me in the woods and Holless set out with a posse.’
‘I know. He said you’d stolen some silver. I never believed it of course.’ There was a moment’s pause and Nat asked the question he needed to. He couldn’t let it go.
‘Then, Florence, what did you expect?’ he said softly. ‘You married him! You made a contract because you needed what he was offering. Did it never occur to you how readily he took you in?’
The tears started to fall from her brimming eyes. He didn’t know that she’d done it for him.
He softened. ‘Is he . . . unkind to you?’ He could hardly bear to hear her reply.
‘It’s . . . I have my own room but he has the key. He is . . . Perhaps that’s how men are here . . . Nat, he’s dangerous. Manipulative and there’s always a threat. I have to allow . . . or he’d . . .’
‘Jesus, Florence! What sort of a bargain have you struck! You allow him. Allow!’ Nat was hissing loudly, afraid to be overheard but furious with her for staying and with himself for leaving. He held her upper arms and she winced. He saw the pain and loosened his grip, ‘Oh God, Florence!’ He began to scrutinise her from head to toe. There was a glimpse of a yellowing bruise just below her collar bone and something else which she was trying to hide. He relaxed his grip but didn’t let go. ‘Show me,’ he whispered. Florence pulled down the neck of her dress and revealed Denzil’s mark. Nat inhaled sharply.
‘It’s burned on. He says that it’s a protection from witchcraft but Pru and I know what it’s for. It’s supposed to look like an extra nipple — a witch mark. With it we’re branded. All he needs to do is call us out and we’d be tried. He likes to remark on my strangeness. He’s started to wonder out loud if I’ve cast a spell on him. It would take so little for him to denounce me as a witch and he knows it. I think that it’s inevitable. Gives him such power over us, eh?’ She couldn’t bear it that he said nothing. Was he disgusted by the scarring? The infection after the burning had been really hard to heal. Florence covered herself. ‘It doesn’t hurt any more. I can cover it up . . . most of the time.’
‘Most of the time.’ He echoed her.
‘Nat. Look at me!’ His gaze was far away and the shaking was increasing. ‘I didn’t say a word — not even when he was doing it. I didn’t tell him about you . . . us.’
Nat finally spoke, ‘Do you think that I care anything about myself when you’ve endured this! I left you in his power and I knew there was something . . . I don’t know how to . . . Can you forgive me?’
Florence’s eyes filled. Even now he should think that he needed forgiving.
He took it as absolution. ‘We’re going. Tonight.’ These were the words she’d longed to hear.
‘Yes. Yes. Tonight. I was so . . .’
‘I know.’ He kissed her damaged wrist. ‘But we haven’t time now . . . we have to plan to leave. I can protect you with Lord Fairfax.’ I think. ‘Can you trust Prudence?’
‘She’s my only friend here. She knows what Denzil is.’
‘Tell her. Gather a bag of supplies and be ready to run. Find some clothes that won’t mark you out in any way — some of the girl’s clothes perhaps. Some provisions — enough for three or four days. We’ll find some way to get you away from here and I’ll meet up with you and we’ll find a way of travelling together with Fairfax.’
Florence grasped at the hope that he gave her and nodded. ‘OK.’ How strange it sounded now to say the word, ‘I’ll be ready. Pru comes with me. He’ll kill her if she stays.’ It was clear that there was no question about this.
‘Good. Be at the Revels. Behave normally. I’ll find a way of contacting you and tell you where and when to meet me. Be ready, Florence. We’ll only have one chance here.’
She shook with fear and excitement at what she was about to do and couldn’t help thinking that Nat still didn’t know the level of danger that Denzil presented. She did know that she couldn’t stay here for another day now that hope had appeared. Nat had come back for her.
‘And so, Mistress, the dances will do, you think? I would want a merry evening for you and his worship.’ Nat’s voice was clear and loud as he stepped away from her. Prudence had appeared in the lit doorway — a summons for her to return to the Hall and deal with further business. Florence tore herself away from him, brushing his fingertips as she passed.
Denzil arrived at the door to his chamber, in a rage.
‘I would speak with Sir Thomas.’ He tried to barge past Tompkins but it was like nudging a brick wall.
‘Tompkins. Remember your manners. This, is Master Moorcroft’s house.’ Tompkins didn’t budge. ‘Let him in Tompkins, if you please.’ The man stood aside and Denzil squeezed past the round belly.
‘Forgive me, Master Moorcroft. I am at your service, sir.’ He poured two glasses of Denzil’s finest wine for them. ‘I would ask you to take a seat but it is, after all, your seating.’ He sat by the fire and Denzil remained standing, fizzing with rage.
‘You have a man with you – Nathanial Haslet?’
This was interesting, thought Fairfax. The complication he’d been expecting.
‘He is a thief. He was in my employ but when he left me, it was found that he had taken a communion chalice — silver.
’
‘Silver?’ Fairfax intoned, impressed.
‘I demand that he is given over to me and the magistrate called.’ Denzil had the impression he was being toyed with.
‘Ah, then we have a problem, sir. You see, I have a debt to Haslet; I owe him my life and it would hardly do to give him over to you and then for him to dangle at the end of a rope, now would it?’ This was a man for whom authority came easily and naturally.
‘But he’s a thief!’ Denzil squawked.
Fairfax glimpsed a hatred in the man that over-ruled his sense. ‘I may have a solution, Master Moorcroft. Tell me what the chalice is worth and I shall pay you for its loss. At one stroke, you are recompensed and I have discharged my obligation to Haslet. Does that suit?’ he thought that he’d outmanoeuvred the man. He also thought that if Denzil accepted, he would have the measure of the man.
Denzil recovered his composure. He had let Fairfax see his loathing of Haslet when he preferred to keep his true self, private. ‘It is of no matter my lord. Keep your silver and I shall live with the loss of mine.’
Fairfax thought firstly that Moorcroft was more calculating than he’d thought and, that he needed to have a word with Nat Haslet.
He had to know and there was still time. Nat had spoken to the girl, Prudence and issued the instructions and she knew to be ready with Florence at the back of the stable as the moon rose. Nat thought that it would be about 10 o’clock but how could you know - here? It was comforting to know that Florence had had a friend with her while he’d been gone. Prudence looked nervous but she didn’t flinch when Nat had told her the plan. After everything that Florence had told him, it was time to find out exactly who Denzil was. They were displaced in time; whatever Moorcroft knew of that, he had no benign intentions that was for sure. It seemed odd to Nat. Surely, people such as he and Florence would want to help one another. Why would Moorcroft be so hostile if he was indeed a time traveller? Nat wanted to know what Denzil knew, what secret Montebray held.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 37