Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles

by Jayne Hackett

  Florence was shaking. Pru tugged gently on Ethan’s arm and went into the yard. Theirs was a happy reunion for all Ethan’s horrifying news.

  Walter caught the lad’s elbow as he passed. ‘We will speak shortly, Ethan Walton.’

  ‘Very well Master Southey. I shall be here.’ Ethan readied himself for that conversation.

  Dorcas watched Florence’s face as she absorbed it all. Denzil had Nat in some cellar at the hall which was not known to the servants but was known to Holless. He was still there. There was devilry in this, she thought.

  ‘Well, this is a shock to the soul and that’s no doubt!’ Walter expostulated.

  ‘My dear, perhaps a pipe . . .’

  ‘Aye. I am told to be gone to the yard for my customary pipe. One day, I shall be master of my own parlour. But no doubt you’ll have private words that are needful,’ slightly irked, he was resigned to his fate. ‘Mayhap I shall speak to Ethan now,’ and that seemed to encourage him.

  Florence took a sip of ale, that Dorcas placed in her hands.

  ‘What will you do? Have you kin or friends who will take you in now that he is gone?’

  ‘What?’ Florence shook her head to clear the confusion. ‘Gone?’

  ‘Florence, I cannot see that your man will return from the clutches of your husband. He has shamed the man and if your husband is what you say, he will surely take his revenge.’ She held Florence’s cold hands. ‘You must consider how you make your life without him.’

  ‘No.’ Florence’s head cleared. She stood and spoke clearly. ‘No. There is no life without him. I will return to Montebray and I will find a way to release Nat… if it is not too late.’ She silently promised herself that Denzil would die at her hands. ‘Dorcas, you asked me what I thought of my marriage? I told you that I would not be bound to a cruel man. I was wrong. To live with him is nothing if Nat is free and unharmed. I would sell myself to the devil himself if that were the price that had to be paid.’

  Dorcas nodded. She agreed with that.

  The truth which Florence Brock did not speak was one that she knew too well: Denzil Moorcroft was not acquainted with mercy.

  43

  A Plan Comes Together

  Even before the shock had flooded through Florence’s veins, she was already moving about the kitchen with determination.

  ‘I must beg supplies, Mistress Southey. I have nothing to pay you with but my gratitude,’ she wasn’t waiting and had already grabbed a sack. Every moment she delayed was a moment that Nat was in the hands of Denzil. And she wasn’t listening.

  ‘I shall need some clean dressings for wounds. Have you some clothes that might do? Master Southey, might I have one of your finest needles and some strong thread?’ Florence was readying for war. She knew Denzil well enough to prepare for the condition that Nat would be in.

  She would tolerate no obstacle. She had to go to Montebray now, no matter what. The decision had been made. Florence worked on instinct, all movement, searching around, trying not to shake, not daring to keep still and think. It was Walter Southey, master glove-maker, who gently paused her, resting his hand on her arm as she fumbled, trying to fasten a blanket around her.

  ‘Dear girl,’ he whispered low, near to her, ‘there is no advantage in leaving tonight. The moon has waned and it is both dark and bitter so that you will be frozen before you reach the end of the town and no use to your man at all. Sit down, child, and we will consider this with clear minds. Sure, if we pool our intelligence, Nat Haslet will be better served — for this Moorcroft is a sharp devil.’

  Florence’s arm quivered midst action, vibrating against his soft restraint. It took her a moment to absorb his words. She wanted to bolt out into the night, to run all the way to Montebray. She quivered with nervous energy as Walter’s arm rested on her and then she allowed herself to be seated by Dorcas – even though that very action felt like another betrayal of Nat.

  This family had business which must be taken care of. First it was decided, by force of necessity, that on the morrow, Ethan would accompany the family to the minister and the banns would be read that evening, for his and Pru’s marriage. Their neighbours were not unfamiliar with such circumstances and it was not overly frowned upon. Few questions were asked when the babe was born. ‘But I will be long gone,’ Florence declared. How could she delay?

  ‘No. You will not, Florence. You will need Ethan to go with you, to show you this door where your man is taken and to help you. It would be foolish to stride into the lion’s den alone. And Ethan has his duty here,’ Walter Southey was firm; his first priority was his daughter.

  Florence saw that she had little choice. They readied themselves throughout the evening and the next morning, she paced the floor, itching for them to get to the church and be done with it.

  Prudence watched her. ‘I know that every ounce of your soul longs to take Nat from his clutches but you do need my Ethan and I need him here — for just a while longer. He will not leave until we are legally enjoined and he has given his name to our child and to me. Would you do less?’ She patted her belly tenderly and smiled at Florence, ‘You must be patient for just a few more hours.’

  So, quietly with all of the courage she could muster, Florence watched as the banns were read. All were satisfied and Ethan, having done his duty to Walter and Dorcas’ satisfaction, was allowed to leave. The marriage ceremony would take place on his return. It was a formality.

  That evening, it being deemed too late to embark on a journey, Florence observed Prudence and Ethan, their eyes never far from one another, and later as they slipped quietly away. Pru’s father watched them go and puffing intently at his pipe, he strode into the yard.

  ‘’Tis hard for a father to lose his small girl even though he knows it is right and proper and even when he knows that she leaves him for a man she loves. Of course,’ he added, a little the worse for the ale, ‘’Tis also hard for him when he knows that necessity makes a quick marriage and when he tries not to think of what they’re up to right now!’ he laughed at his own discomfort. ‘But what of you Florence? What of your father?

  ‘He is dead, Master Southey. Long gone.’

  ‘Well, there is that small mercy.’

  She looked at him and frowned in puzzlement.

  ‘He did not live to see you shamed, child. Surely, it would have broken his heart.’

  She was cold. ‘The shame is not mine.’ Florence didn’t hesitate. Tired of their self-righteous condemnation, it was time for them all to be disabused of the certainties that they adhered to about her marriage. ‘Denzil Moorcroft was a brute from the start — even on our wedding night.’

  Walter’s eyes grew wide. This was more of an answer than he’d expected — or desired.

  ‘He did not understand love, tenderness or even simple respect. Even subject to his viciousness, I wondered if it was something which I had done to offend him and I tried to be a better . . . wife,’ she laughed bitterly, ‘but each morning when I saw my bruises reflected in Pru’s eyes, I understood a little more that he was simply . . . bad — damaged and that any vow I had made was undone by his cruelty.’

  Walter was too shocked to interrupt, the pipe fell loose in his lips. These were words he would rather not have heard but still, she would not let him go and he had no choice but to let her continue. He sobered with every truth she told.

  ‘Nat had tried to warn me, of course, to tell me that something was wrong with Denzil but, to my shame, a part of me saw advantage in the match and I did not heed him. My shame, Master Southey, is my behaviour towards Nathaniel Haslet and the great pain I caused him. There were times when I had almost lost hope and wondered if it was worth living that life . . .’

  ‘Nay girl! Say not that! It is a mortal sin to take the life which the Lord has given you, no matter what that life is! Never consider it!’ He was quiet until he saw her begin to calm, ‘ I did not mean to raise my voice. Pardon me. It is probably the ale,’ he smiled a little lopsidedly.

&n
bsp; She inclined her head, ‘Moorcroft forced me to send Nat away believing that I loved despised him — and loved Denzil. He promised to kill him if I did not. And I believed him, Master Southey. When Nat returned, he saw everything.’ She paused for a moment and wondered if Walter would remember this in the morning. ‘I hope to God that I still have the chance to live a good life, Master Southey. I hope that Denzil has not killed him.’

  Walter Southey was visibly shaken by her speech and did not know how to respond.

  ‘And I can tell you this about my father,’ she added, ‘his only shame would have been in not tearing Denzil Moorcroft limb from limb.’ Florence walked back into the house and left Walter Southey deep in thought.

  The plan was simple: Ethan would accompany Florence and scout out the Hall while Florence waited. He would create a distraction which would draw Holless and Denzil away from the house and then he and Florence would find Nat and bring him away. Their best hope was that Denzil and Holless were away from the building itself; she doubted that it would be that simple.

  Ethan was cheerful and even expressed a hope that Denzil might be at hand and that he might have a chance to exact retribution on him for his treatment of Prudence who then thumped his shoulder and extracted a promise that he would do no such thing, reminding him that he must think to their own future. Ethan’s eyes lowered to her abdomen, ‘I shall come home safe, my love, do not fear.’

  Florence watched them and realised that she had no right to endanger these people? Pru and Ethan were meant to live their lives in this time and place but she and Nat simply existed here within their own bubble. They were not really part of this world and they would always be visitors. This was a nightmare holiday in time and they were tourists here — not locals. There was a . . . wrongness, in them leaving their mark upon events here. Pru must have Ethan returned to her and they would live out their lives as if Florence had never existed.

  The next day, Ethan set a brisk pace. He was not a talkative youth, much to her relief because she was far too tense to converse. She did, however, quiz him on this secret door. There was little more he could add. He’d been too far away to see details and had no idea where the door led, just that Holless had opened it by pressing the wall.

  When Ethan wanted to stop, Florence waved him on, driven to reach Nat. Finally, he stopped her, ‘I know how fervently you wish to arrive, but I cannot take another step without food and rest — and neither can you, I think. We must halt for the evening for it is madness to continue in the dark.’ He was right, of course. Exhausted beyond belief, with her worry and distress, she slept while Ethan kept watch, not nearly as tired as he’d led her to believe.

  For one passing moment, Montebray looked like home and pulled at her heart. Then she saw the truth of the ginger-bread house, its promise a thin veil. They observed the place for a while. Ethan said that they should approach by a circuitous path rather than the main track and they skirted the edges of the grounds. He left her behind the west wall where she had a good view of the main door and told her to wait; she would know the diversion when it happened.

  ‘Ethan,’ he looked back at her, ‘take great care. I would not disappoint Pru for all the world.’

  ‘I am to be a father, husband to Prudence Southey, and married into the family of Walter and the formidable Dorcas Southey. Do you think, that I dare be anything but careful!’

  She hugged him anyway. ‘And friend to Florence Brock.’

  She watched him keep his head down around the walls and the outer buildings, until he disappeared and then she settled to wait. She fully expected to be there until dark and rested her back against the wall but it seemed that Ethan had taken his chance. The field hands were away so that only a few household servants remained — girls. He made his way to the laundry where the cauldron was being heated. Using a shovel, he scooped up burning embers and ran with them to the stables. Only two horses were there so he shooed them out and flung the embers into the deep straw.

  Florence saw smelled the smoke before she saw it. Then Ethan’s voice, ‘Fire! Fire! Water!’ she saw him dip down again behind the buildings until he reached her.

  ‘Watch.’ He was breathless.

  They saw Holless appear and plant himself on the porch. He stared at the smoke and then scanned the grounds. They shot their heads down below the bricks. Holless actually raised his voice, ‘Fire! All of you, to the stables! Take buckets. Cook – man the well. Run!’ But there were too few of them to be effective against such a blaze.

  Denzil appeared shoving his steward aside and yelling, ‘My horse! Take the horses. They are thoroughbreds!’ He had no choice but to run with the rest of them, bucket in hand, towards the flames, the shimmer of which was just visible in the bright sunshine. No doubt a broad daylight ruse as part of a rescue, had not crossed their minds. Clever boy, Ethan.

  Denzil yelled back at Holless as he ran, ‘And lock the fucking door!’

  She and Ethan were crestfallen until the craziness of an idea lit her face. ‘If we run around the back of the Hall, we can reach the walled garden — and the rose trellis.’ She knew it could be climbed. Florence began to organise her skirts and then decided that they needed to be shed. Ethan was open-mouthed as she shrugged out of the outer garments and stood in the wool shift. ‘Can’t climb in that lot,’ she kicked them into the ditch.’

  ‘Prudence . . . the babe . . .’ Ethan had brought her as far as he could and now he had his own battles to fight.

  ‘Right choice. This is my responsibility,’ she made him look her in the eye. ‘Go home, Ethan. Go to your family. I know how to do this.’ She grinned, ‘Anyway, hundred meters, student games 2012. Watch me go!’ she gave the confused lad a peck on the cheek and went. Ethan had no idea what she’d just said and he watched her fly across the open lawn towards the corner of the house. And then he heaved a heavy sigh and scooted along the walls, to wait for her in the kitchen garden.

  There it was, the open window into her chamber and beneath it, the climbing rose that Nat had climbed a lifetime ago. There was no foliage to hide the thorns and woody stems but the rose was old and thick and vigorous. She began. There was no way to protect her hands as she reached for hand-holds through the matted branches. The shift snagged and caught as she went, until parts of it were shredded. Only her feet were protected by the clogs. The rose was a powerful deterrent to intruders but she overcame it. It wasn’t a high climb — no more than fifteen feet but she was bloodied as her hand reached the sill and pushed open the window. Florence heaved herself over it and slid into the room, heart pounding and mouth dry.

  Ethan was disconcerted as he saw her disappear. He had made a promise that he would not risk his own life but he would wait and help if he could. Squatted down underneath the low wall, he squinted up at the window, when he felt the broad tip of a knife at his back.

  ‘Ethan, lad. You silly sod.’ The pressure was lessened and he turned to find Cook holding a bone-handled carving knife, its point still aimed dangerously towards him. ‘You know that she’ll fail, lad.’ Cook was agitated. ‘Shit! You can’t die here as well. That’s not the way its supposed to be.’

  Ethan discovered that he really didn’t want to die at all.

  ‘Well, I must help it seems.’ She didn’t look happy about it and pursed her lips. ‘I want you to run. To go back to your Pru and to see the birth of that child. Yes, yes. I knew — her scent changed, you see.’

  Ethan opened his mouth to object, to explain why he had to wait here.

  ‘No. You can’t. Florence and Nat are dead and you are not — yet. Go now and you’ll escape.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘If you don’t move, I will begin to shout and scream. Master Moorcroft and Holless will quickly be here and they will find you. I will say that you threatened me with a knife and they will restrain you and, the best you might hope for, is to be turned over to the magistrate. Or they might just question you themselves . . .’

  He swallowed.

&nb
sp; Cook opened her mouth and took a deep breath. Ethan ran as hard as he could back to Prudence.

  Florence tiptoed to the door. Shit! Why hadn’t she thought? It was locked. Now what? She’d have to wait until dark and climb down again. Florence sagged to the floor beside the door and started to lick her wounds. In the distance, getting nearer to the building, she heard a chilling voice.

  ‘She’s here I tell you! I know what I saw — a woman bolting across the lawn — and who the hell set that fire! Go! She has an accomplice. Search the kitchens.’ Denzil made towards the library and Florence could hear the thrill of the chase in his voice. He was enjoying this. Doors opened and slammed as Denzil searched frantically for her.

  ‘Ah. My dear. Montebray welcomes you home. Come, Florence, greet your husband,’ he shouted to the place itself.

  She rose to her feet.

  ‘She’s here, man. I tell you I saw her.’ There was silence and Florence heard the jangle of a ring of keys. Denzil ascended the stairs inexorably, not hurrying but whistling ‘Ten Green Bottles’ in a most sinister fashion.

  44

  Monster Under the Bed

  Every childhood nightmare that she’d ever had, involved hiding under the bed, a safe-haven protected from the monster chasing. As an adult, she had to fight against her dislike of sleeping in a framed bed where the coverlets hung down to create a dark and secret cave beneath. And yet, here she was, having slid through the dust in to that dark space underneath this great bed and the monster was closing in on her. No dream this.