‘My Lord,
It has been my honour to serve you - for all too brief a time. You have been generous and I would not have left your service except to rescue a woman dearer than life to me.
You have guessed that there is more here than I have told you. So now I will tell you something which I sincerely hope you will believe. What I say now, will come to pass.
Parliament will win this war but it is Oliver Cromwell who will prevail. The King will be executed but you must not sign the warrant because some years later, the King’s son will be restored as Sovereign. It is said, in the annals of history, that you survive the turmoil and retire to the country where you live happily with your wife and family.
If you have not already ripped up this letter and cursed me for a madman, then I suggest you burn it but remember what I have said for it is the truth as I know it.
My respects to you, Sir.
Nathanial Haslet.
Nat realised that it was the second time that he’d prophesied the future. He wondered if it would have any impact.
Fairfax was so bitterly disappointed that he almost tore it up and threw it in the fire before he opened it but curiosity swayed him and as he read, his face blanched. He would have thought Haslet a man possessed, had not he already heard whispers of regicide at Cromwell’s table. His wife resided at Nun Appleton Priory, his home in north Yorkshire, pleading with him to join her and their children and retire from the fray. It was an increasingly strong temptation and years later he could not say whether it was his horror at the King’s execution — or Nat’s letter which had caused his withdrawal from the world.
40
Unacquainted With Mercy
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. It irritated the edges of his consciousness, insisting that it was a sound that he ought to know. How heavy his eyelids were as he tried to drag them open, to bring himself out of this stupor, but he was groggy and they would not respond so he stopped resisting and focused on his other senses. He was slumped in a chair, uncomfortably and the room smelled dank and mouldy. So very foggy and such a struggle not to sleep but he was far too cold and none of this was natural.
Suddenly, there was intense pain. His wrists, his neck, his head. They all screamed at him to wake up. This was no gentle sleep and he needed to snap out of it. He must look. The scratching nagged at his memory nudging him back to wakefulness. Dragging his eyes open was a struggle but incrementally, he blinked them apart. What was that sound? Ah, yes, he knew now: the scratch of a record player needle stuck endlessly at the end of a disc. Irritating. Someone should lift the arm. He might have to do it. He raised his heavy head, still battling through the fog of this damned confusion. The grimace of pain was etched on his face.
Diffused flickering lights played across sparkling shards of glass and he was sure that there was a fire opposite him, its warmth barely reaching him but its dancing orange glow a blur. And yes, on a sturdy table near to the fireplace, was an antique phonograph with a heavy needle arm in a finished loop scratching at the end of a thick black disc. His Master’s Voice! His continued befuddlement allowed him to wonder what the tune had been as the room slowly, gradually came into view and the twinkling glass began to shape itself into a series of contorted laboratory constructions with small cauldrons of hot coals heating flasks of liquids, suspended on iron tripods — some sort of distillation. It was extensive and impressive. Nat wanted to stand so that he could see it more clearly and tried to move. The agony in his wrist and ankles made him cry out and he couldn’t budge.
‘Ah, at last. If I were you, I would relax and give yourself time to recover. Propofol can be rather . . . sapping. Oh, and the restraints will slice even further into your succulent flesh if you strain against them. Wouldn’t want them to hit a major blood vessel.’
Nat’s adrenalin flooded his system at Denzil’s voice. He snapped his head to and fro in order to locate him and felt the cutting pain of wire splitting the tender flesh. He cried out. The only way to stop it was to sink back into the seat and allow the wire to work loose a little from his skin. He sucked in deep breaths as the searing agony subsided and the fierce stinging lessened. His mouth was dry and his heart was pounding in his ears, through the thud of a drugged headache. He worked to understand what had happened and what this was and still Denzil remained out of sight hovering somewhere behind him. Nat’s first words were bolder than he felt,
‘What do you want?’ he growled with enforced stillness.
The footsteps on the stone flags brought Denzil into his field of vision from somewhere behind him. Always a bad place for an enemy to emerge from, thought Nat – especially this man.
‘It’s hard to process isn’t it? Being utterly helpless and at the utter mercy of another.’ He was bending down, hands on his knees, looking directly into Nat’s face. ‘Even harder, I imagine, for you to realise that the only questions in this room are mine and in our time together here, you will answer all of them to my full and complete satisfaction.’
Nat sucked in air to clear his head and reply but Denzil interrupted him, still crouching down and looking into his face like he was a child, ‘Save your breath, Nat – I may call you Nat? I am not interested in any comment from you which I do not solicit. We are not here to enjoy conversation. I simply need you to tell me what I need to know and, if you do so to my satisfaction, you will remain alive and your suffering will be less.’
‘I cannot promise that this will be a long-term state for I fully anticipate that you will not … co-operate and I shall hurt you — and probably enjoy it.’ He leaned further in and took Nat’s face between his surprisingly calloused hands, ‘Make no mistake, Nat, I am not practised in the art of mercy.’ As his hands withdrew, he curled his fingers in and scraped his nails hard into Nat’s stubbled jaw. He drew blood and Nat began to shake from the fear of what would come. He reminded himself that torture is all about anticipating fear and pain.
A memory came back to him: Florence had called Denzil a psychopath. No wonder she’d been terrified of him. So, what did he know about psychopaths that might be useful? They had egos and they were charming. They had no sense of remorse. He thought of what he might say to help himself. I don’t really know what you want of me, Denzil, but I’ll tell you whatever you ask. You don’t need to fasten me to this chair. I’m happy to . . . but he needed only to look into the gloating face of his captor to read the uselessness of that approach. The man was waiting for such pleading. Nat wondered if Florence was still waiting for him. No. He’d been here too long for that. She was long gone.
‘Ask,’ he said.
‘Very good. Now. Tell me about Hugh Gilbert.’
Some blessed time later when the excruciating pain had stopped, the screaming and sweating had subsided and he was alone, he was able to turn his attention inwards and away from the wounds on his body. Denzil’s questions had made assumptions. It took him some time to believe that Nat knew so little about Hugh Gilbert and in the process, he learned more from Denzil than his torturer learned from him. Nat told him what he knew, which, he realised was what Denzil knew too. Always tell the enemy what they already know or suspect. There was definitely an organisation who knew about watchers and they were active. That was real progress, thought Nat.
Denzil had paused, exhausted with the effort and the ecstasy of the procedure and thrown a bucket of icy water over Nat which had unfortunately revived him. Then Denzil changed tack and started asking him about his mother and father; where and when he’d come through and which tree he’d used. What was his father’s profession? Where had he gone to school? Initially, Nat hadn’t seen the point to the answers and had dragged out responses but Denzil was not a patient man and well targeted stabs from the point of a very sharp dagger — his dagger — had speeded up his responses. He felt the wetness of blood running down his face and neck, and his chest and back were punctured like a pepper pot.
The direction of Denzil’s questions changed and would have seemed strange to anyone but
Nat and Florence. When had he been born? What wars were fought in his time? Who led the country? Who was the monarch? Nat felt that he didn’t want to give this man the truth — his truth. His every instinct screamed that there was real danger in Moorcroft knowing more than he should and so he tried to give plausible dates and general answers but his history was patchy and his hesitations betrayed him so that Denzil suddenly brought the thin dagger down with some venom into the muscle on the top of his right thigh. For a moment, Nat had passed out and when he came to, Denzil was speaking quietly to him, almost tenderly,
‘There is little point in lies, Nat. Your only release is the truth; without it, you will endure endless suffering at my whim. Remember, what I have already told you: I am not acquainted with mercy.’ It had become the mantra of their conversation.
‘Just ask your fucking questions!’ spat Nat, feeling sick with pain and spattering Denzil’s tunic with blood and spit, dampening his captor’s laughter.
From the moment he’d pocketed Denzil’s treasure, he’d wondered about the extent of the secrets at Montebray. He began to combine his own knowledge with the questions that Denzil had ‘asked’. What he didn’t understand was what Denzil needed to know from him that needed torture to extract it. Why didn’t the man want to work with them to go home?
The truth was that with the wire cutting into him, Nat would have easily given every answer without the pain of further torture which Denzil was so subtly but casually administering but even as he heard himself screaming this aloud, he sensed Denzil’s heightened enjoyment of his agony and humiliation. With each new piercing of his soft flesh with the dagger tip, Denzil salivated and grinned, watching intently for the reaction on Nat’s face and as Nat confessed his answers there was a triumphal, ‘Ha!’ It seemed that much of what he said confirmed what he already knew but there was a pattern to Denzil’s questions which was all about Nat’s own time – Denzil’s future. Once, during a break in the proceedings, he had risked one of his own questions. Denzil, ecstatically spent, and Nat exhausted with the agony, were both breathless with the effort of torture.
‘How . . . do you have a gramophone?’ he gasped without lifting his bowed head.
Denzil was energised; a man happy in his work. ‘Ah, yes. I missed it so and it is possible you know. The records are more problematic. Shellac is so brittle that it will not bend at all. Unfortunately, that is my only record and I don’t even like Caruso. The Beach Boys are far more to my taste.’ He laughed loudly. ‘Oh, wonderful! You have entertained me Nat. It is so long since I have even been able to think about such tunes and now we have shared this precious moment. Do tell: who did you enjoy?’ Denzil was talking. This was good. He wasn’t hurting Nat while they talked.
‘AC/DC.’ The thought gave Nat no comfort, in this room of hurt and despair. There was no recognition of the name from Denzil. Well, that tells me something, he thought. More information. He was careful not to smile and draw a response from his tormentor but a sudden realisation hit him,
‘You’ve been back,’ he gasped.
Denzil gave him a full handed swipe across his face which brought tears to Nat’s face. Perhaps he’d just let the man rant. Denzil had done what Nat had hoped might be possible. He’d gone back and forth in time and brought objects back with him. Why had he remained here? Why didn’t he want to go home and stay? All this time they’d wondered and thought about how it might work and this bastard had the answer.
‘Such a tender age, I was.’ He was lost in the moment of reminiscence, the physical activity seeming to relax him. ‘I can share this with you Nat – and later perhaps with my dear wife — such a relief to be able to be honest don’t you think?’
Nat took it rhetorically.
‘Holless, was, of course, my saviour. He’s been a father to me — as he reminds me frequently,’ he laughed dryly, ‘But sons outgrow their fathers, you’ll agree?’ his eyes sparkled. ‘Perhaps at a later date, I shall tell you my whole tale. It really is quite interesting. Ha! Won’t that be fine? We’ll be able to swap stories — swapsies!’ He giggled. It confirmed everything that Nat thought.
‘Then what do you need me for? Why do you need my story?’ Nat sighed.
‘Information. To see a true map of our history! It’s quite wonderful you know! You are the latest one that we’ve found! I believe that this is a period of great . . . activity in the cosmos. Something is allowing the trees to work their magic. I’m not clear what that is but, as you can see, I am a modern man — a scientist – and for sure my experiments will reveal the answer. I cannot wait to discuss all of this with my dear wife — when I find her,’ he muttered quietly to himself, out of Nat’s hearing.
Nat told himself to be very quiet about Florence’s point of origin. There was something about her that both these watchers — and Denzil - found interesting. What was Denzil saying? A Cosmic power? Not magic surely. He really needed Florence’s expertise. Her knowledge of the science of the trees would be invaluable. Yes. That was her great skill after all. Was that why they wanted her?
He realised that Denzil and Holless were collectors of people who came through and they’d all undergone Denzil’s questioning. Nat hoped the poor sods were dead. Denzil had said that he was the ‘latest’ they’d found. Perhaps the others had been from earlier times than Denzil’s and were less use to him. Nat had insights into new times.
This room seemed designed for the purpose of interrogation and experiment. It was chilling to hear Denzil talk about ‘later’ but at the same time, he wasn’t going to die today. Perhaps that was something to look forward to. His own hopes were fading as his blood trickled out from a myriad of small wounds and he could see no means of escape from this room. In a moment’s respite when Denzil busied himself with the table of implements, Nat’s eyes followed the sticky thread of his blood oozing slowly away into the distance. His chair was placed above a small channel, carved into the stone floor — an ancient groove, he thought — and which ended in a drainage hole near the wall. This room had served the same purpose for many years. There was an iron grill above the hole. Nat was very still now, controlling his pained breaths in order to hear. As he strained to listen, distant murmurs carried up from beneath the grill and drain. Nat thought that they were animalistic, as though a beast was feeding. He listened harder. No. They were human noises but there was feeding. Lapping sounds as though a liquid was being . . . He almost gagged with the appalling horror of it.
‘It is a treat. So nutritious. It may keep them alive a little longer while I have use for them. Their own blood provides for my experiments, you see. As will yours. At least that is some comfort to you as it drips away; you may be contributing to a greater understanding of the workings of the eternal clockwork of the universe, than you could ever have hoped for.’
If Nat had thought that Denzil was a psychopath, he reconsidered. Denzil Moorcroft was exactly as Florence had said: a monster. His only remaining hope lay in the fact that Florence wasn’t here. He couldn’t think about what she’d felt when he hadn’t appeared but Florence Brock was a clever and resourceful woman. She would have escaped. She would survive.
‘Now,’ Denzil said cheerfully, ‘did you collect Dinky cars too?’
41
Dear Prudence
The revels were at their height when Florence excused herself for a call of nature. Very shortly her continued absence would be obvious and escape was now or never. It wouldn’t take Holless long to see that she and Prudence were missing and that clothes and supplies had been taken. The man had preternatural detective skills. She was already surprised that he wasn’t keeping his usual surveillance over her. She and Pru slipped away unseen and waited for Nat behind the stable. Although the night was cold, the women were warm with excitement — and not a little fear.
They waited.
They waited until the revellers began to leave and the music stopped.
They waited longer than they should have done.
They waited until it
was obvious that he was not coming and lights went on in her chamber.
Florence knew that they had to go but she felt the inertia of her heart breaking. Had he abandoned her? Nat would surely have sent a message if there was a delay. Was this revenge? A dish best served cold? He might be somewhere in the shadows watching her increasing pain as she realised that he wasn’t coming?
It was Prudence who grabbed her arm propelling her towards the woods and escape, ‘We must go. They will search for us.’ Florence stood numbly, unable to move.
‘We have it wrong. He’s waiting somewhere . . . we must look . . .’
Pru slapped her.
‘No. It is my life as well as yours. Move!’
Florence staggered through her tears for the first few miles, confused and hurt beyond words. She wanted to be angry but could not. She had only herself to blame. She had betrayed him first.
Prudence could not afford to indulge those miseries until they reached safety — and at the pace they were going, that would be some time next year! When Florence had wanted to stop and rest, Prudence said no with a reversal of confidence and authority which was born of a fear for her own life. That and having the scent of home in her nostrils. They knew the danger but it was Prudence who had the steel to keep them going; Florence had lost all heart. They tried to sleep — briefly — in damp dells in the woodland and they drank from ice cold streams but mostly it was steady trudging through the bracken and brambles. They had eaten their meagre bag of supplies — the best Pru could do without Cook’s knowledge and she reassured Florence that it wasn’t far. Nights were long and cold and there was little point in trying to walk beyond sun set when the woods turned black and treacherous, so they hunkered down together, clinging together for warmth, miserable and grindingly hungry. Pru endured it better than Florence but then she was free, Florence was in torment.
Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 39