The pulses from the Great Yew had begun early in the day, each member of the Chapter disturbed by them as they jarred through their very bones. It had been Marissa’s watch so that she would have received the missive—even if it had not had her name writ large on it.
The members of the Order were being drawn towards the Great Yew, and Alcuin led them. Marissa actually ran towards him—almost unheard of in this timeless bubble. She called out to him as he made his way to her, his path clearing as colleagues parted like the Red Sea.
‘Child, your hands!’ he gasped. ‘Fetch water and ice. Quickly!’
She was shaking, her eyes wide with shock. ‘Come. Sit. No. Do not speak until we have tended to your burns.’ Within seconds, healers had gathered around her and slathered her hands in a fragrant ointment, wrapping them in soft plastic film—a boon passed to them from those in their future who sent instructions—and sometimes medicaments—to help with the burns which were a consequence of their role. Marissa was taking deep breaths and recovering and they waited to hear her tale. There were no secrets within the Futures Chapter—only patience.
‘A document came through—you felt the heart-beat of the tree? I have never seen the like. It was printed but as I viewed it, the photographs moved. A film on paper!’
All of the members embraced the new technologies as they were revealed to them but none had seen such a document.
Alcuin encouraged her, ‘Where is it now Marissa?’
‘Gone. Burned to cinders even as I finished viewing it.’ She held up her bandaged hands. ‘But I both saw and felt, Alcuin. We are in mortal danger—of this I am certain.’
‘Continue, child. Tell us what you have seen.’
Marissa turned to address all of them, ‘A great rocket lifted itself from the Earth and into the skies, spewing flames from its arse and lighting the whole sky as it were the sun. It pushed away from the pull of the planet and pierced the blackness of the heavens.’
The Taxanes were intolerant of ignorance and embraced new scientific advance with openness. They all had access to the complete history of scientific discovery and marvelled at the wonders of it—except for the terror of the atomic weapon. But even now, nothing yet explained the portals provided by the energy of the trees. Nonetheless, several of the Chapter members from distant centuries sucked in a deep breath, their sure knowledge that the Earth was a planet within a solar system and within a greater universe, still a heresy against their childhood teaching. They did not doubt it but were discomforted by their sense of the blasphemy of it. Some beliefs were hard to shake. Since the advent of Mr Einstein, there were some intriguing theories about worm-holes, string theory and quantum physics which were promising, they thought. Some had faith that as time progressed, all would be made clear; others believed that infinite mysteries were not for them to understand. All had faith in the future. The very fact that the Future spoke to them periodically, reassured them.
But this was not a comforting communication.
Marissa burned with the memory of that photograph. ‘I read quickly, scanning the paper as we are taught. The text spoke of a catastrophe greater than any that man has created before. A weapon will be readied which can inflict irreparable harm on our peoples. I believe that it is a similar device to that which was recently loosed into the air over Japan—but its reach was global.’ Recent, to the Futures Chapter, was a relative term.
‘The text was from the southern continent —Australia—but it seems that the disaster . . . ’ she swallowed, her mouth dry. ‘My friends. It seems that this disaster will destroy much of the civilisation in the northern hemisphere.’ There was an audible gasp and the Order was not easily shocked.
‘There is more. Together with the warning there was a handwritten note: Florence Brock is the key. Dear friends. We must find her and bring her here where she can be…contained. There was a time and a location.’ The Future was being as helpful as it could. It was a dangerous thing to do.
The synod was convened and they discussed how they would find this Florence Brock. Alcuin—ever influential— led those determined to bring her by force, if necessary, to within the Chapter. Only in this bubble of time could her threat be neutralised. They scoured their records and discovered her disappearance in 2020. They had no doubt when she would reappear.
Marissa was torn. She spoke passionately. ‘The woman must be found by us; we are tasked so. But we have no authority to confine her. We are not gaolers, nor do we sit in judgement. To imprison her may be the very catalyst that causes the catastrophe. We do not even know if she is one such as us. Perhaps she does not have the gift. Many travel through the trees but few are suited to the Chapter. Florence Brock has free will and nothing gives us the right to keep her here against her will—not even our knowledge of the future. I cannot tolerate such a gross act.’
Alcuin thought that she was influenced by all that she had forsaken. The debate was fierce and heated but Marissa’s argument won out. Alcuin had to agree that they had not yet succumbed to the corruption of their own power. Florence Brock would be given a choice—but she would be very carefully watched.
And so it was that Marissa was left with her own choice: to leave the Chapter and speak to Florence Brock or to stay and leave it to others. Marissa held Alcuin’s look until he nodded and offered a smile. She would leave if the yew door allowed it. They had gathered with her, her few possessions in a small velvet sack, and watched as Marissa reached out her hand and laid it flat on the sealed door. The wood creaked and became fluid as a wide crack opened a portal into the wider enclave. There were astonished faces on both sides to see such an event and faces sought out one another until Marissa had stepped through and the door re-sealed itself.
Marissa du Bois made straight for Samuel Richards in the Library with hope in her heart that he had not forgotten her and with another that Florence might be persuaded to join them.
Alcuin was, by nature, a still person but now he paced to and fro along the narrow space between the vast crystals, restless. Marissa was lost to them as a result of his insensitivity. Her fine talent would be missed—not least by him. He turned his raw hands over in front of him, and marvelled at the extent of the scaring on the nobbled, slightly arthritic knuckles. Blisters were always forming and several of them were shedding skin, leaving shiny circles of new redness. He sighed and dipped them into the bowl of iced water. It helped.
Breathing a sigh of relief as the iced-water did its job and the stinging ceased in the numbness, his eyes closed but a sense of being watched made him open them slowly. Around him stood a group of twenty or so Chapter members, who’d gravitated towards him and stood in silent accusation. ‘Marissa made her choice and the Yew confirmed it,’ he sighed, in the Latin that was used as lingua franca in the Chapter. His shoulders fell as his eyes met theirs, ‘Perhaps I was not strong enough to persuade her . . . ’
‘We do not blame you, Alcuin. None of us here are as profoundly imbued with the touch as you—or the Lady Marissa,’ a young woman spoke. ‘It is harder for us to understand how you feel these incursions.’
Alcuin inclined his head graciously.
‘We cannot pretend to understand the full implications of what you have felt . . . ’ she continued.
Alcuin waited for the ‘but’.
‘But, surely, once the woman has been found, a simple action whereby this Florence were to be. . . inducted into the Chapter, might resolve…’
‘We are not brigands, Isolda. I hope that we have not yet had to resort to kidnapping as an alternative to persuasion.’
‘Didn’t work with Marissa,’ an older man in plus fours chipped in, leaning on a wooden golf-club.
‘Marissa has long been conflicted — as well you know, Bertie.’ Alcuin took his hands out of the ice-water and dabbed them carefully on a fresh towel. Clearly, there would be no moment of peace. ‘She made her arguments well and swayed the feeling here.’
‘And now she’s gone,’ Bertie quipped. ‘Not terr
ibly useful, dear chap.’
Isolda saw an unfamiliar frown furrow Alcuin’s brow and she scowled a warning at Bertie, ‘What Henry means is that Marissa is a loss that many of us believe is beyond recompense. If Florence Brock is the catalyst which the records suggest, then surely, she ought to be brought within the Chapter before further damage occurs?’
‘Yes. Perhaps. But what if that very act of force, is the one which precipitates the catastrophe? You know that we may not interfere with process, only try to influence it. Even if we believe it to be the wrong choice. Marissa was brave in offering an alternative. She has gone back out into the world—a world which has progressed forward without her—and she will offer Florence Brock her own choice.’
Already, the small group had begun to dissipate. Bertie drew a small pot from the pockets of the golfing pants, ‘Marigold extract. Nanny Jones used to swear by it for blemishes and burns.’ He patted Alcuin’s back and left him to administer it.
Alcuin remembered Marissa’s exact words: You have no right to bring her here against her choice. She has a life . . . in the world beyond . . . and she may not wish to abandon it. He hoped that she would find her own life again.
26
Ley Lines
Edward instinctively stepped back from the tree as he felt the vibrations begin, pulling Margaret with him.
‘Have they . . . ?’
‘One moment, my dear,’ he breathed and removed his hand from hers not wanting to betray that sense of vigour and quickening that he was experiencing—even at this distance. Then, it was gone and he knew that they were gone also.
‘Father. . . ?’
‘All is well, Margaret. The translocation has taken place and our visitors have gone home.’ He couldn’t keep the longing out of his voice at the loss of the glimpse of the future that they had shared with him. Was this what it was like to be Margaret? Taunted with glimpses of times that she’d never see?
He focused on recovering. ‘Come, my dear. Let us away to our own home and to our lives.’ He became brisk, ‘I have some interesting ideas to share with you on the use of iron in structures, that I believe you will find most interesting.’
They rode together and Margaret was glad to have him back. She would miss Florence in particular but she and Nat had drawn her father into a world that excluded her. She knew in her heart that all that bound Edward Cavendish to this century was his daughter and that he would never desert her but it did not mean that he was content. Recently, probably because she was aware of her own blossoming, she noticed a problem with her father’s appearance. He did not have a single grey hair; he retained all of his teeth and he had the vigour of a young man. In fact, when she pointed it out to him, he took a long look in his mirror and realised that he looked virtually the same as the day he’d arrived here. While others might have thought this a boon, for Edward and his daughter, it was heart-breaking. He was not ageing; his daughter was.
Margaret was ever practical. She saw a life ahead of her as a grown woman and, once a suitable man had been found, one that complemented her independence, as a wife. She did not want to be alone in this life once her father had gone. And gone he would have to be. It would hardly do for the daughter to look older than her father. It was an impossible situation. She would always be the loving and dutiful daughter but she hoped for a full life of her own, with children and grandchildren. She did not see how her father could share in that life. The conversation would be hard.
‘Did you know Father, that the Queen of England cannot travel through the trees either?’
‘Queen Victoria?’
‘No. Florence told me. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth — the second of that name. She accedes to the throne in nineteen hundred and fifty-two.’
‘Ah.’
‘It seems that the Queens who will follow are all exceptional monarchs. Yes. Queen Elizabeth was said to have enjoyed taking refreshment in the hollow of an ancient oak when out hunting. Since she did not evaporate, we must assume that she is more like me than you.’ Margaret was enjoying the moment. ‘It seems that a great Queen and I have something in common.’
Edward laughed. ‘That is a fine thing to be able to know—but which oak, Margaret?’
They spent a while discussing the location; Margaret had asked the very same question to Florence. Florence’s knowledge of trees was extraordinary and she’d remembered that it had been on the estate of Lord Tollemach at Helmington in Suffolk. She’d asked Florence if she’d ever seen it. She had—from a distance. Edward would make a note of the tree in his journal; it was always good to know of such an oak.
‘Father, I must ask you a difficult question.’
‘More difficult than your usual questions?’ he raised an eye-brow as he smiled.
‘Oh, yes,’ she took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps the most difficult.’
She had her father’s full attention.
‘On your travels, you will have discovered my fate.’
It was brutally blunt and Edward choked on his wine but there was no point dissembling with his clever girl. ‘I have.’
‘It has occupied my thoughts. I have struggled as to whether to ask you knowing the pain it would cause. I ask now for a reason: is my life to be happy? Will I know the joys of marriage and motherhood? I understand that you might not wish to tell me all but your answer will speak to my response.’
Edward could hardly breathe. He took both of her hands in his, ‘My child, you do. You live a long and happy life.’ His eyes shone.
‘Good. I hoped as much. You would hardly come and go as you do if I was in mortal danger,’ she allowed herself a small laugh to hide her own emotions.
‘Margaret . . . ’
‘No, father. Tell me nothing more of my fate. I cannot be considering what ought to be; I must simply be. I am perfectly content, knowing that my life will be a useful one.’
‘It will my dear. Be well assured of that. You will live to a ripe old age and be dearly loved.’ No parent should be able to tell their child of their death.
Seeing the emotion on his face, she stood and put her arms around his neck. She was pleased that neither of them knew his fate. She did not think that she could bear it. ‘Do not fear so for me then father. It would seem that I will be . . . OK!’ It amused them both as she used one of their friends’ phrases. ‘Then there is something that we must face, Father. Something in which we have no choice. You know that we must plan for your departure.’ One look at his tortured face told her that he knew. It gave her courage for both of them.
‘No. I will not leave you to the mercies of this age . . . ’
‘You will endanger me by staying. They will brand us for sorcery. You know this. Your unchanging aspect would damn us both. ’ He was defeated because he had to admit a truth that tore at his heart.
Maggie shook her head vigorously. ‘Father, men like Denzil Moorcroft abound. ‘Men such as he, will always be a threat to us. I now know that my future is secure and so we must think of you. What of your happiness with Constantina?’
He gave her a wry look.
‘You are a time-travellers. Constantina is also a Taxane. There would be no need for secrets between you. You might live happily . . .and I have seen the looks she gives you—and you her.’
‘Margaret. You can know little of… that is… Constantina and I… Oh, God! What it is to have a talented child.’ He could not hide the flush that washed his features but managed to compose himself. ‘There can be no true happiness without my dearest daughter by my side. But… you speak truly, Margaret. I am a danger to you and from what I know of your future, it would seem that you forge your path without me.’
Edward knew where he would find Constantina. She often kept Peter company in the stable. One look at his face made her tenderly cup Peter’s face and leave him to his food. Edward offered her a small bow and offered her his arm as he walked to the stable. He noticed that she was trembling—or was that him?
‘Forgive me Constantina.’ The na
me felt natural on his lips. She said nothing. ‘The stable is perhaps not the place for this conversation but I thought that it would be better not to be overheard and Margaret has a talent for seeing and hearing that which she should not. I wanted to be…private. I hope that you do not mind?’
‘Margaret is young and does not understand the needs and desires of her elders,’ offered Constantina.
‘Needs and desires?’ he was intrigued.
Constantina shook her head. ‘So many years in this land and still I misplace the words.’
‘Your words are perfect.’
It was the most intimate compliment that he had ever paid her and she blushed. He blushed. ‘You and I ….we have shared a home at Burcroft these many years and rubbed along well enough?’
She nodded, wondering what rubbed along meant.
‘And Margaret. She is very fond of you.’
‘As am I of her.’
‘Yes. Quite.’ It was quite clear to Edward that Constantina would give him no assistance. He hoped that he had not misread. If bloody Nat had told him false… ‘I too am ….fond of you. I would be sorry not to have you.’
She lifted an eyebrow, ‘Not to have me?’
‘At Burcroft!’
She inclined her head—graciously.
‘Bugger!’ Edward muttered. He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘No. This is not my meaning. I see that I must speak plain and suffer the consequences.’
Constantina’s eyes flashed. Was she mistaken? Did Edward simply wish to rebuke her? ‘I have tried to be as a mother to her Sir Edward! If there is blame, it is mine. It seems that I have taught her to be . . . cunning. I think perhaps she is more cunning than either of us! I beg your pardon. I shall be more direct with Mistress Cavendish. You have no need . . .’ She twisted her hands together most uncharacteristically.
‘No. No, Constantina. That is not…’ He growled at himself—at his ineptitude. ‘No. You have misunderstood me,’ he said as he walked towards her. ‘Margaret has rebuked me. She has accused me of dishonesty and, in looking into my heart, I find that she has the right of it. Mi dispiace, signorina.’ He smiled at her and watched her confusion.
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 17