‘You know, my leg hurts less when I’m here.’
‘Flatterer.’
‘No. Sorry. I meant when I’m next to the trees — in the roots.’
‘Oh, yes. You can feel it then?’
‘Like a pulse, a heartbeat?’
It worried them and then delighted them. They lost their trepidation and anticipated being cocooned in the nest of the tree’s base. They let the rhythms of the forest pulse through them and renew them. Nat slipped her hair from her neck and kissed her on that small acorn mark, finding her soft if grubby skin. She turned towards his lips and squeezed his thigh — the uninjured one — where her hand rested. The tree’s quickening began its process and they gave themselves to it.
Afterwards, they dropped into a deep sleep, breathing deeply in the oxygen of the forest. Until they were shocked into wakefulness by the swift tap of a boot, causing them to scramble up clutching one another and looking for refuge and escape like startled deer.
47
Maggie May
‘God’s truth we’ve lively ones here, Buskette!’ Trilled a young feminine voice from astride a massive and snorting grey cob. The woman – Buskette presumably — a retainer of some sort by her appearance, winced slightly at her mistress’ oath but nodded. ‘Aye, Miss Maggie. Best stay atop whilst I shift the buggers.’ For such a short rotund woman, she leapt down lightly from her own saddle.
‘Geraldine! Language!’ the young woman teased in mock outrage, and her servant half-apologised before she saw the jest, hiding her smile behind a wiped sleeve across her face.
The young mistress turned back to them and announced with all of the imperiousness of a teenager, ‘You are on land belonging to Burcroft Park. Should I assume that you are merely passing through and that, by your . . . appearance . . . you have fallen upon hard times?’ She paused for a moment and then asked the strangest question:
‘What are you?’ she looked pointedly at Florence. Nat began to step forward to intercept the question and to offer a plausible explanation as to why they were there. It was a habit that they had fallen in to, he speaking for both of them because it was the custom of the age, but Maggie halted him with a piercing look, ‘I ask her, Sirrah. Stand down.’ There was real authority in a voice of one so young. Beside her, the woman, Buskette, bristled, ready to enforce the message.
For a moment, Florence considered weaving a web of half-truths which might satisfy her but as she opened her mouth, she found that she no longer had the energy for any more lies nor the desire to concoct another tale so she took a deep breath and said, ‘We’re runaways — running from my husband, mistress,’ she added respectfully and with no irony. ‘He has beaten me and hurt me cruelly and I fear he will kill my . . . love, for jealousy — and spite. He is no ordinary man, lady, but a vicious tormentor who deserves to die.’ She found that it felt cleansing to tell the truth. ‘Make of that what you will.’
It was a stunningly bold statement and Nat looked incredulously at her, opening up his arms in a gesture which said, what the hell are you thinking? Had she abandoned all common sense! If this young girl was a puritan… The woman with her, actually wore a short sword and he was still in no fit state to engage in a fight — even with a woman. This young woman and her companion might well decide that they were decadent itinerants and have them rounded up to return to Denzil Moorcroft.
But then he saw Florence’s calculation: this young woman was no puritan; her hair was too prettily curled, her fingers were bejewelled and beneath her cloak, her small bosom was popping out of her bodice — and she had already blasphemed. So, not a puritan then! Clever.
Florence’s gamble was that the least that they might get out of this was shelter for the night and maybe a meal before they were sent on their way. Sometimes it was worth taking a risk. People could be kind — even here.
In the pause that followed, Nat could not have called it. It seemed that Miss Maggie was as analytical as Florence and the tension between the two was palpable, neither one looking away. He had always been baffled by the ability that women had to communicate through a single look.
‘And this husband, you have adulterously wronged before the Lord?’ asked Maggie as she bore her gaze into Florence’s eyes but with the slightest hint of . . . humour?’ And Florence didn’t miss it. No more dissembling. She took the hint.
‘Is Denzil Moorcroft of Montebray. I hope to God that you do not know him for he is a cruel and unnatural man and you’d do well to keep a wide berth of him. The man is a lunatic — a very devil.’ It was as honest as she dared be.
‘Mm. Still, I am not sure that we women are given the right to be unfaithful to our husbands. I am young but I am sure that those vows . . . ’
‘That vow was meaningless on his part, mistress,’ intervened Nat. ‘I would not tell you of some of the abuse she has suffered. The details are too . . . intimate,’ he saw Buskette throw a warning not to offend the tender ears of her young lady. ‘She was faithful to her husband but when I returned to the Hall and discovered her mortal peril, I offered to rescue her and save her life. Surely, my lady, that is a Christian act?’ They watched Miss Maggie considering. He thought that perhaps he wouldn’t mention Florence’s stabbing of Denzil.
Buskette huffed pointedly so that her mistress might take note of her scepticism.
‘I know, Buskette. Your thoughts are perfectly clear to me without that noise. They do indeed look disreputable and their story is not inclined to engender a strong sense of their character. Nevertheless, you know our business here.’
Buskette gave another snort of acknowledgement.
Maggie’s expression changed as she regarded Nat, ‘And was the lady’s husband as pleasing to the eye as you, fellow?’ She had the pleasure of Nat’s blush and Florence’s astonishment. Buskette shook her head. ‘What do you think, eh?’ Since Nat was speechless, she addressed Florence.
‘Not nearly as . . . pleasing, mistress,’ laughed Florence.
‘Well, that’s one reason for your flight,’ she laughed. ‘Buskette, kindly let them sip from your flask. It will fortify them sufficiently to follow us back to the house.
Buskette’s hand hovered protectively over the corked pewter flask around her neck.
‘Come woman, I know as well as you that it’s not Adam’s ale in there. I’m not an idiot child. Now, be a Samaritan and share with those in need.’
Buskette threw the flask over with little grace.
Nat, removing the cork with his teeth, inhaled the fumes of good brandy which made his eyes water. He thrust it towards Florence saying, ‘Have a swig. ‘S’good.’
She sipped carefully and then, took a hefty swallow which made her gasp. ‘Ha!’ she wheezed, handing it back to Nat who took an equally deep draught, swallowed with closed eyes and, thinking better of taking another, under Buskette’s scowl, handed it back. She shook it and raised an eyebrow, calculating how much might be left.
Miss Maggie had already turned her horse which was delicately threading its way out of the dell, its breath spurting steam into the air. Buskette mounted and set off in her mistress’ wake, pausing for a moment, without turning around, until she heard the shuffle of Nat and Florence’s footsteps behind her. Whether this was confidence in their need for a meal or her hope that they would give up and clear off, neither Nat nor Florence knew. Maggie, however, occasionally allowed her horse to nibble the tender shoots when she felt that they were dropping behind, causing her serving woman to snort with disdain at their weakness and her charge’s excessive kindness. They quickly intersected with a broad path, well used — if the ruts and horse shoe imprints were an indicator. Civilisation had, in fact, been less than two miles to the East. They had been close to it all along.
They paused to water the horses at a stream they crossed and Florence approached the young woman. Buskette stepped close by, ever vigilant.
‘Mistress, you have been kind. May I ask your name?’
‘Margaret Cavendish of Burcroft Park
- Geraldine Buskette,’ she inclined her head.
‘Then please allow me to introduce us . . . I am . . . ’
‘Oh, I know who you are Florence Brock – Nathanial too. The Taxanes told us to expect you. Father will be delighted.’
Epilogue
Thank God it wasn’t raining. That was something, Samuel thought. Despite the motorways being clear for a change, the drive from HQ had been long. He liked to arrive early because, while Time was predictable, people’s calculations often weren’t. Samuel had already visited the site to ensure that all was quiet and he would return an hour or so before the predicted arrival time. For now, he sat in the rather battered Volvo estate, flask in hand and M&S sandwich at the ready.
The Order was convinced that this was the night in question but the only opinion that mattered to Samuel was Marissa’s. Her return to him from The Futures Chapter was miraculous; it was unknown in living memory for someone who had entered there ever to leave again. But the message she carried was disturbing. Interference in the timeline was always unsettling and often dangerous. It invariably carried consequences that were damaging but Marissa said that this incursion could be catastrophic. Samuel often thought of Time as a pot being thrown upon a wheel: it was raised smoothly from the clay but one unbalanced moment, one wobble, on fingernail dragged through it and the pot might collapse or be morphed into something else — an ashtray!
This wobble, and the travellers who were at the centre of the it, had been sufficiently significant for Marissa to be sent back to him. This was a threat to the timeline of major proportions.
Samuel was cognisant of his responsibility, his duty, but all he yearned for was to be back with her and to feel her real and warm in his arms again. He’d promise himself on the tedious journey that he would not begin to think about what her reappearance would mean for them, until he returned. He would remain professional. He just wished that cake had not been quite such a comfort to him these many years.
He had been briefed about the arrival. The Enclave’s notes were quite sketchy up to the post World War One era. Solar flares were not widely observed and travellers were dismissed as lunatics. The Order had been rocked by the seventeenth century notebooks, found in the depths of the archives of the National Science Museum by a PhD researcher. They were unusually detailed and were pried out of the young woman’s hands only after the promise of a very successful media career was offered to her — guaranteed.
The writer’s notes had proved surprisingly reliable — even with the anachronistic notion of scientific notation. It had encouraged them to devote a great deal of energy into discovering who the writer was. There was great interest in the fact that the observation of solar flares was far too early for the range of known telescopes. The strong suspicion was, that here was the work of a traveller.
It took a great deal of further research to correlated these early observations with recorded coronal mass ejection, which left their mark in the trees and the geology. Fortunately, the fiscal resources of the Taxane Order were extensive. The writer of the notebook made specific comment about the reaction of ancient trees to the Sun’s energies and this tree — the St Edwin’s yew — in particular. It was a reference that could not be ignored. This tree was exquisitely placed on the intersection of several ley lines and it had proved productive before so that they had every expectation that they would be in the right place at the right time. Marissa had no doubt and that alone was enough for Samuel.
Practical field experience had taught Samuel that it was somewhat intrusive to be beside the tree as the travellers emerged, indeed, some found it quite threatening to have a watcher suddenly emerge and confront them. A better approach was to gather them up as their confusion subsided, often with the offer of food and drink, and so he planned to be standing a little way off so that he could see and be seen but not so close as to be menacing. He intended to wander back to the vicinity and watch and wait once he’d eaten his sandwiches. There was plenty of time. He was looking forward to meeting Nathanial Haslet and Florence Brock and having read everything that he could on their disappearance, he felt ready to receive them back.
It wasn’t his fault they were early!
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Thanks
I am humbly grateful for those friends and family who’ve supported and encouraged me. Not one of them doubted me — even those for whom sci-fi is not a first choice of read.
Every member of my family told me I could do it. They listened patiently when I told them about the glories of ancient trees. Even those who are raising my first grandson and are in the midst of sleepless nights, were cheerfully positive and unerringly supportive. And those who were busy building a house and doing a full time job always gave positive feedback.
My husband was (often) right. He watched me grapple with it all and proudly told all and sundry about the book. He gave excellent advice about art work and websites.
I am grateful for my editor’s notes. She encouraged me not to be afraid to ‘kill off my darlings’. She was right too.
Thank you to Christine, who proof-read with such care, and with whom I had such interesting discussions about language.
My special thanks to Tom without whose persistent, consistent and insistent encouragement, I would never have got the book into a finished state.
I hope that you enjoy reading it.
Thank you all for treading softly.
About the Author
Jayne Hackett is an emerging time travel writer.
Shadow of the Savernake is the culmination of Jayne’s life-long love of reading — particularly sci-fi and fantasy. Once she’d discovered the Gollancz sci-fi books in her local library, she was hooked. Her book shelves and her Kindle are an encyclopaedia of the best in these genres, but when she couldn’t find a book to read that she hadn’t already read, Jayne decided to write one that she’d like to read and so she wrote, ‘Shadow of the Savernake,' Book One of the Taxane Chronicles’.
Jayne has a degree in English Literature from the University of Sheffield, and a Masters from the University of Nottingham. Together with her teaching qualifications she enjoyed a successful career in English teaching and was a Senior Lecturer at Sheffield Hallam University.
She lives in Yorkshire with her family but remains a proud daughter of Nottingham where she was born. Perhaps her love of fantasy adventure was sparked by having attended Robin Hood Primary School?
‘Kindle is like a box of chocolates: you finish one great book and all it takes is one click to buy the next in the series or one that’s been recommended. Now, I take my library with me — but I still have a love of the printed page. Who doesn’t get a thrill from being tempted by the cover only to find that the book lives up to the promise? My bookshelves still groan to the weight of those books that I treasure. If I’m not reading sci-fi fantasy, I’m getting to grips with the articles in New Scientist or marvelling at photos of the galaxy in Brian Cox’s tomes. I read about trees. I read the classics — but I don’t read Misery-lit; life is too short.’
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www.jaynehackett.com
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Shadow of the Savernake: Book One of the Taxane Chronicles Page 45