‘No, Caleb, and I mean no offence or harm to you or Mercy.’ He paused, ‘But friend, you have seen this wasting sickness before, as have I. You do know—and it is hard to say this to you—she will be by the side of her Lord too soon. She is . . . more fragile from when last I saw her. Strong and devout as she is, her pain will be unbearable as she nears the end.’ Edward saw the brutality of his words reflected in Caleb’s eyes and offered the only means he knew to ease the woman’s path. It was nothing that Caleb had not admitted to himself. He had seen what this sickness did; saw the agony even up to the end and did not know how he would bear it for her. He bowed his head. It was agreed then.
‘In my saddle bag. . . give a few drops to Mercy and it will let your dear wife sleep, her pain dulled. When the time comes and she can bear it no longer, increase the drops and she will sleep her way into the her Lord’s arms without suffering.’ Edward waited for the man to compose himself. ‘Her God can surely find no pleasure in a good woman’s agony I think.’ Neither man moved, bound by their mutual heartache.
‘In your saddle bag, sir?’ He looked his master in the eyes. ‘Peter,’ he called, ‘do you fetch Sir Edward’s bag here, boy. He spoke softly, ‘It is the pain that I fear for her, you see. Nay, I would not let her suffer and we have spoken of such but being a God-fearing woman, she asks me only to stay with her when she begs it of me. She would take it a sin for me to ease her from this world but if I would not let a beast lie in torment thus, how could I do less for her? He was in anguish. ‘It is a sleeping potion you say? Then I think that she need not know. There is no sin in falling into a sleep. How I am judged, I will answer for.’
‘How indeed, friend,’ Edward whispered, knowing that he would do the same in a heartbeat—had once done the same because he could not bear her cries, could not bear her pleading to make the pain stop and find release. ‘I promise you Caleb that this medicine is powerful and will send her into a profound stupor where the pain cannot follow. If you put a little and often into her drink, it will do what you both require, when that time comes. Mercy is dear to me also and it grieves me to see her so and I too am afraid for what I know is to come.’ He laid his hand on Caleb’s shoulder and left it there for a moment as the man suppressed a single shuddering sob. They were still in full view of the cottage.
‘Come man, let not Mercy see us so! Let her smile for as long as she is able. It is the burden which we bear for her and it is not so heavy.’
Caleb composed himself and discretely wiped his face. Edward had already delved into the saddle bag and retrieved a wrapped parcel, small enough to be palmed in his hand and passed without fuss to Caleb and thence to a fold in the man’s tunic.
Peter had done his work well and the fine horse was led out of the paddock to a stone mounting block, whilst he stroked the grey’s nose and murmured into her ear. These two were good friends.
‘Does the boy understand, Caleb?’ Edward asked.
‘’Tis hard to say, Sir. He is gentle with the animals when they have a hurt and he do lay his head on his mother’s lap on occasion when the pain is writ on her face. I cannot think but that he doesn’t know what’s to come and I dare not think of his anguish when she passes. My Mercy talks to him and understands him better than any other. She tries to prepare him for his life without her—and he will always have me.’
‘And also me, friend. Fear not for gentle Peter. He will never want for a good home or folk to care for him.’
Edward deliberately livened the tone as they both turned. ‘Well, Peter. I see that Cloud thrives. You have exercised her as I asked of you?’
The boy’s grin nearly split his face.
‘And is she fast on the high gallop?’ Edward winked conspiratorially. The boy spluttered with pleasure and through his incoherent sounds, it was understood that the horse was indeed fast and the boy loved her for it. Thank God she was big enough to carry this strapping youth with ease, he thought. His bags, now mounted, Edward rummaged through them again bringing out a brightly striped candy stick. ‘And for your kind efforts, here is a small treat for you Peter.’ He encouraged the wide-eyed boy to take the candy stick.
Caleb smiled fondly at his son who pinched the candy between his fingers, unsure what to do with it. Edward mimed licking and the boy stuck out his fleshy tongue and touched the candy, instantly fizzing with delight as the sugar sweetness hit his taste buds. He needed no further instruction.
Caleb laughed. ‘I’ll just be a moment sir, while I saddle my cob and take leave of my wife.’
‘No, Caleb. Stay. For now, your place is with your family. Mercy has need of you and Peter would not be sufficient . . .’ This time, Edward would travel the last few miles home alone and anyone he encountered would hear a tale of dismissing his servants as drunks and incompetents. It would do. Better that Caleb should be here for when the morphine was needed than he maintain the façade of a gentleman with a retinue.
Caleb made token protests but in truth was relieved not to have to leave his wife’s side. His master was kindness itself and had taken the family in when many were a-feared of his gentle son. Sir Edward had housed them and looked to their comfort and all he asked was their devotion and no gossip of his comings and goings. Miss Maggie’s visit had comforted Mercy—he knew what she had asked the girl. She had asked for someone to take the burden from her husband when the end came. She did not want him to remember only the indignities and torments. A wise woman his wife, to extract such an assurance from the young girl. She deserved peace. Caleb clutched the small bottle.
His business here completed, Edward mounted Cloud. He looked down on the family who lived on the edge of the forest and who deserved better than fate dealt them, waved adieu to them, bowed to Mistress Blackman and left Caleb clutching the small apothecary’s bottle against his body, standing beside his wife, both watching their son who was entirely focused on the delights of the candy stick.
‘Let’s to home and to my dearest girl,’ he said to his horse, gauging that the swift animal could make the journey in less than a day and then he would see the welcome outline of Burcroft Park and his dear Maggie. Cloud needed no encouragement.
5
Small Mercies
Denzil Moorcroft had sweated in his bed, in and out of fever as the wound inflicted by his wife began to fester—and stink. Sometimes he floated back up to wakefulness but the unbearable pain in his groin made him thrash about in agony and he saw what he knew to be true, in Holless’ face: he was dying. The almond smell infested his nostrils and there was heat pulsating from the wound. Even the fall of the sheet upon it, was intolerable. Holless had done all he could: extracted the iron barb; cauterised it with a blade and drenched it in brandy, fending off the screams and slaps from Denzil.
In a moment of lucidity, Denzil clutched Holless’ jerkin, pulling his face down towards his own, ‘Pointless,’ he hissed in a grimace. ‘In my laboratory…’ he sipped from the cup which Holless held to his lips, ‘a brown bottle—small. Bring it.’ His hand fell away as a wave of throbbing pain took him. Holless was there again, lifting him, begging him to sip and placing the pill bottle in Denzil’s hand.
‘Four,’ he rasped at Holless’ stricken face. The type of bottle was familiar to the steward but the label amoxicillin, meant nothing. The injury needed stitching and Holless steeled himself for the fury of Denzil’s fists. There was relief on both sides when Denzil passed out. When the fever finally broke, the tortuous recovery began. When he moved there was pain, there was blood. To piss meant pain. The bed linen was stiffened with dried blood and pus. Denzil thought that it was easier when he had been delirious.
Improvement was slow and agonising but the enforced stillness sharpened his thinking. The bitch had meant to kill him—of that there was no doubt—probably thought that she had. Only the antibiotics had saved him and now, his precious supply was used up—as was her chance of escaping him. As the wound healed, Denzil’s fury festered. He kept the blacksmith’s nail which Holless ha
d extracted; he had plans for it.
Holless’ craggy face became even more cadaverous without sleep while Denzil hovered between life and death. The boy was precious to him—as another such lad would have been in another life. He endured every assault and would willingly have taken the hurt upon himself if he could. Any parent would. He had done as Denzil had ordered and hired itinerant mercenaries to search for the woman—this Florence—Denzil’s wife. Such miscreants were not difficult to find as they marauded around the countryside. He thought it better to let the whore go but knew that Denzil never would. The boy was not inclined to mercy.
Holless despised these men. Their loyalty only to a fat purse dangled in their faces. Their leader, William Spofforth, didn’t disguise what he thought of the mission: a pointless quest; a wife who’d run off with a retainer; a cuckolded husband humiliated. It had happened before. How much easier just to denounce the bitch—divorce her or have her pronounced a witch. Much easier to marry a more biddable wench. That’s what he’d have done. Spofforth spat.
Holless didn’t understand Denzil’s fascination with the girl but he did as he was bid and sent Spofforth and his band out in ever widening circles, to listen at inns and markets for mention of a man—an injured man— and a woman travelling with him. A couple who didn’t seem to belong. But the times worked against them; so very many people were displaced and so many strangers looked suspicious and hungry.
Spofforth and his men, reported back, were fed, paid and sent out again, smirking as they pocketed their coin—easy money. Denzil grew strong enough to hear Spofforth’s report himself. As he roiled in his bedding, he saw the disgust on Spofforth’s face as he tried not to gag at the stench of the sick room. Denzil sent him out again, tempted with a fatter purse and readying himself for the day when she was found, when he must rise from his bed and take her. A few more days and he’d be fit to do so.
Spofforth didn’t disguise his thoughts from his men: a fool’s errand and a waste of his time but he reminded them that the cuckold paid good money. Easy pickings. They gave low laughs. William Spofforth was well-suited to this life. He had men to call his own, no allegiances, no obligations to family or friends. He had a position riding at the head of this crew. He took what he wanted and no woman refused him now. If she didn’t want pennies then he’d take her anyway. Who would stop him? He’d been born to this.
Whatever task William Spofforth undertook was paid for and he had no scruples in changing his loyalties for a weightier purse. He collected men who shared his opinion. However, this search was becoming tiresome. Long days on the road just seeking information, needed. . . enlivening. Holless had warned him to avoid fights and to stay away from trouble and now his men were restless and spoiling for a fight. They were bound to him out of expediency not out of duty and he saw the lie of the land. Even when he’d doled out enough pay to find an inn with a generous whore, they were bored and wanted to be gone to find the next fight. Now, they whispered and hung back as the horses straggled in a long line and Spofforth heard.
He’d made the decisions to simply move on when, around a bend in the track, they came upon a young giant, stroking the neck of a pony, who was oblivious to the attention and was snuffling at some tender oak leaves, low hanging within reach. The men tensed at the size of the lad, wondering if he’d provide some sport.
‘Now then, lad. Fine pony,’ Will turned to his men to bathe in the appreciation of his wit; the pony was a fat lump.
But the lad beamed at him, ‘My very own sir. She is Turnip. She likes turnips.’
The men brayed loudly and the lad raised his hand to his ears at the noise.
Spofforth silenced them. ‘And nay doubt ’tis why she’s so. . . sturdy,’ he smirked. Perhaps the lad lived nearby and they could take some refreshment there. Perhaps he had a sister. ‘What’s your name, lad?’
‘Peter Blackman,’ the boy replied pleased to be able to converse with a stranger in the way his mother had taught him.
‘And you have other beasts to care for, Peter?’
‘I have a fine horse. Cloud.’ A small frown furrowed his brow. ‘She is not mine. She is for Sir Edward.’
‘Sir Edward?’
He nodded.
The boy’s doltishness was beginning to annoy Spofforth. ‘And where does this Sir Edward live?’
Peter clamped his lips together and shook his head. He had already said too much. Father would not smile at him.
‘Spit it out. I need to know,’ Spofforth manoeuvred his horse so that he was beside the boy who shook his head again.
Will struck the boy with the back of his gauntleted hand and the boy whimpered and the men laughed again. ‘Tell me now Peter and I won’t need to strike you again.’
‘Father says mustn’t. Won’t.’ He wrapped his arms around the pony’s neck, his tears falling into her mane. Defiant.
Spofforth saw what must be done. He drew his dagger and placed the point against the little pony’s flank.
Peter reacted at that, turning and pulling Spofforth to the ground and flinging the dagger into the undergrowth. Spurred into action, the men jumped on him, it needing five of them to hold the youth on the ground until Spofforth had recovered enough of his dignity to stand over him.
‘You lump of shite,’ he spat and kicked the lad in his balls.
Peter groaned and then cried like a baby, unable to curl up, held by the men. He was brave and would not speak. The pony was brought back from its little trot into the forest and Spofforth held its rope tight. ‘Tell me about this Sir Edward, Peter, or I will blind your Turnip.’
Peter sobbed, ‘Cloud. She is fast. Miss Margaret says that I will ride her again soon—when Sir Edward goes on his journey.’
Shit thought Spofforth. The boy was an idiot. He would need to encourage the boy. He had to draw blood from Turnip before Peter would speak again.
The boy was crying at the hurt done to his little friend. ‘You be stranger. Mother says I must not talk to you. Miss Margaret came with strangers. Leave Turnip be,’ he whimpered, as he struggled against his captors, his thoughts jumbled.
‘Strangers? Tell me.’ Spofforth made Turnip whinny with pain.
‘A man. A woman. Miss Margaret is kind. Please! Turnip.’ The youth was incoherent in his distress now and not even Turnip’s whinnying could distract him from his rocking to and fro.
At last, thought William Spofforth. A mention of a man and a woman—strangers. It was the first hint that they’d had. He congratulated himself on a flash of inspiration. Freeing the tormented pony, he watched her turn, heading straight for home, with Spofforth and his men in pursuit. The boy, they left, nursing his balls.
They missed Sir Edward Cavendish by an hour.
6
Home Is Where The Heart Is
At thirty-three years of age, Edward Cavendish was in the prime of his life. After the trauma of his arrival, he’d adapted and at nineteen married well with sweet Margaret a babe in his arms soon after. Three years later, his wife, Esther, lay dead, interred in Burcroft’s church where her tomb would ever be honoured by fresh flowers for as long as Edward drew breath.
In those aching months after she had gone, it was the baby, vibrant and needy, who’d kept him alive—and anchored in 1631. Her incessant demands left no room for the grief which he wanted to consume him. No. He’d kept his word to Esther and, with the exception of a wet-nurse, tended to Margaret himself as much as he could. Their bond helped to fill the aching emptiness and as she grew, Edward was endlessly fascinated by her sharp intelligence and thirst to know. She became his helper, encouraging him to travel and to bring home new delights and inventions. She knew what he was from the age of eight. There was no confounding little Margaret’s intuition and Sherlock-like interrogations. She wormed it out of him and quivered with excitement on the day when he told her that they would travel together to the future.
On that day when having completed all of the calculations they went secretly to the tree, Margaret didn
’t once look back. Her bravery singled her out among girls and placed her in danger. It was worth the risk of taking her to a time where she would be so much safer than in this age of religious fanaticism.
Once they’d stepped into the tree together, he knew the wrongness of it. He held her close but the vibrations jarred in his bones as he watched Margaret, wide-eyed, waiting for the same effect that she saw upon her father but feeling nothing. Edward thrust them out of the hollow and back onto the forest floor, knowing for certain that Margaret could not make that transition with him; it would kill her. She must navigate the danger she was already in.
The child was devastated, her dreams of travelling to her father’s future, shattered. The experiments and calculations stopped, Edward deeply anxious that if they tried, he might be snatched away from her into another time, never to find her again. Margaret cried with disappointment. Holding her to him as she wept tears of frustration, he promised her: ‘We may never travel to my world together and you will not see my future but I promise you, dear Margaret, that you will know everything that I know. You will know the future through me.’
Her sobbing stuttered and through wet lashes she squinted at him. ‘Will you bring me a micro-scope?’ she enunciated the word precisely and he laughed at her audacity.
‘I will try child. Piece by piece I shall bring you the parts of that instrument and you will see the tiniest creatures of the universe with your own eyes.’
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 4