The Trip to Jerusalem, emblazoned with a proclamation of ‘The Oldest Inn in England’ on its white-washed walls, lay at the foot of the castle. Nat was blasted with warmth from the log fires that warmed the hive of rooms. The tiny bar was empty and the stone floor, usually shining with spilt beer, was bone dry. The barman, acknowledged Nat, a slight raise of an eyebrow at Florence’s absence but as Nat walked zombie-like to the empty bay seat in the rock alcove, Bartholomew, with a barman’s instinct, swallowed the question and began to pull the pint.
Tonight, the bay cut into the rock of the castle, was Nat’s alone. His head sank into his hands but he looked up as a windswept Samuel threw open the door, holding it back for a woman who entered with all of the presence of a queen. Nat raised his hand to Bartholomew and raised three fingers.
‘Tough day,’ he sympathised, putting down the pints.
‘One for the history books,’ replied Nat, taking a long deep drink.
38
A Person of No Importance At All
‘Marissa has some crucial information that you’ll need to hear before we go any further,’ he quelled Nat’s interruption. ‘I assure you, it is entirely relevant to our search for Florence Brock.’ His eyes opened wide, ‘Good God! Is that porter you’re drinking? How does it compare?’
‘Milder, than I’m used to,’ Nat responded automatically, confused at the disjointed opener, ‘but I got a taste for the stuff—and Bart there,’ he indicated the barman who acknowledged him with the glass he was polishing, ‘we got the mixture about right between us. Real-ale buff.’
Nat was conscious of the fragility of his glass in his hands. ‘Where is she Sam? What the fuck is Denzil Moorcroft doing here?’ his voice was thick with suppressed rage. ‘Can’t you rally your people? Get them on the streets searching for her? We need to be out there.’ He realised that he was standing, ready to… what? He didn’t know where to begin to look for Florence.
Marissa touched his arm lightly and it drew him back to his seat. ‘Please. Hear me, Nathanial. We have time. I promise.’
She was a voice of calm in his storm.
‘You know, I didn’t visit the inn—when I was last here. It was quite some time ago—not appropriate, you see. One has a sense of continuity—that it is still here, serving its purpose across the ages,’ she trilled. ‘Charmant!’ the delicacy of her French inflexion contrasted with the great gulp she took from the pint.
‘Steady, my dear, it’s not small-beer, you know.’
‘I do know that, Samuel,’ she reproved.
Nat drained his glass and slammed it down on to the table. He hissed, ‘Don’t you realise that Florence is in danger? He could be doing anything to her. She could…’
‘We know where she is, Nathanial. Denzil Moorcroft has returned to the seventeenth century—with Florence,’ Samuel announced.
Nat shot out his hand and grabbed him by the collar, letting his fury loose. Samuel was very still and it was Marissa who spoke.
‘Release him, Nat. This is not our fault and there are…consequences which we must discuss.’
Nat’s eyes were still wild but he released Samuel. ‘It’s all a fucking game for you isn’t it? You follow the time line and it’s all about letting it happen. You don’t care that Florrie is in danger. You think that you know Moorcroft from what we’ve told you—what he is and what he’s capable of but you’ll never know what it actually means to be in his power. Florrie knows him better than anyone. She went after him, knowing what he is. She knows that whatever he’s up to, he has to be stopped. You can’t even begin to imagine what courage that woman has.’
Samuel rubbed at his neck and began to splutter his reply, equally furious with Nat. He stopped at the touch of Marissa’s hand on his arm, letting Nat spew out his anger.
‘We thought that the bastard was dead— I mean dead then as well as now—and then she sees him—on the street! Out of his time and in ours! We’d come to terms with him being dead—or surviving—as long as he was in the seventeenth bloody century because here, now he was dead. But he isn’t. He’s here as well—alive! We’ve survived him—twice— but make no mistake, man: he is a psychopath. He doesn’t have a conscience. Now. Tell me what you know and how I get to Florrie.
Samuel’s response surprised him. ‘All you can think about is what you’ve been through! Dear God there is so much more to this than you realise! The whole time line could have been compromised by your meddling tonight!’ He was actually purple. His outrage was candescent and he and Nat were within inches of one another’s noses and staring, nostrils flared.
Marissa squeezed Samuel’s arm, ‘Take a drink Samuel,’ she ordered. ‘They could not know. Take a drink, mon cher.’ Her voice was calming—and he sank the pint with practised ease. She forced a smile, her eyes wide and soft as she looked at Nat, ‘However c’est vrai, Nat. What is at stake is far more than you can possibly imagine.’ It sounded particularly chilling spoken through her smile.
Samuel breathed in as the veins in his neck disappeared, and he waved imperiously to the barman for another round.
The youthful lashes of Marissa’s eyes hid a far older wisdom, ‘We understand your anger and your outrage. Let us tell you why we are so concerned. She sipped the porter again, savouring the depth of its flavour. ‘Holy Jesu, but this is good!’ she exclaimed, putting it aside reluctantly. With her elbows on the table, she drew Nat towards her, speaking so quietly that he had to crane forward. ‘I am Taxane—this you know—and I was returned from the Chapter specifically to be of service to you—both,’ she turned the beam of her smile on Nat.
Nat was caught in her charm. ‘Madam—Lady du Bois—Marissa, for God’s sake tell me what this is about.’ He shivered at the thought of what Florrie might be enduring.
‘Very well.’ She lowered her voice and they drew towards her. ‘In the Chapter, my work was varied, often touching—literally— upon genealogies and parish registers, seeking for changes in places where we suspect that travellers have been.’ She paused, measuring Nat’s comprehension. ‘The Great Yew, at the heart of our Chapter, presents us with documents—sometimes artefacts—which always have a bearing on the timeline. When the message came through with Florence’s name on it, we knew that you would be returning to this era and that when you returned there would be consequences. The tree and the time of your return were accurately predicted. Sir Edward Cavendish made a fine contribution to our archive.’
Nat’s eyes widened at the sound of Edward’s name, exactly the effect that Marissa had hoped for, showing him the threads of their travels drawing together, pulled by centrifugal forces and she saw his anger fading a little. ‘I can tell you more of their lives—but not now. We have a more urgent matter to discuss, n’est pas?’ She had Nat’s complete attention and she was succinct. ‘Few are suited to the Chapter because to most, the timeline simply is.’ Her passion for the mystery of it shone in her face and she spoke, ‘but for some who’ve travelled, the timeline is more problematic. Those such as I, sense changes — this is also Florence’s gift.’
Nat frowned, not liking the web that Florence was being drawn in to and sensing that she was part of a bigger picture.
‘I must tell you of what I discovered about you and Florence. Nat: of you, there is nothing. Your name is not recorded on any parish register and you do not appear on the military rolls, which is strange, assuming that you used your own name throughout your time there.’
He nodded at her, impatient.
‘You signed your name—not just a mark?’
‘I did…my name,’ but there was hesitation. ‘It’s possible that Fairfax removed it. I…erm…left him a letter to explain why I had to leave. I didn’t want him to remember me as a bloody deserter.’
Samuel rolled his eyes. ‘Foolish but understandable.’
‘There’s more. I told him about the King—and Cromwell.’
Samuel slammed down his pint glass which was fortunately very nearly empty, ‘Good God! You are
more stupid than I’d thought!’ His voice echoed with complete disbelief.
Nat was unrepentant, ‘He deserved it. A good man who had faith in me. I wasn’t about to let him down. I didn’t think he’d want to be caught up in it.’
‘Foolish pride,’ Samuel retorted. ‘Do you think that you have power over what will be.’
‘He wasn’t executed was he!’ Nat spat back.
‘He might…’
Marissa raised her hands and resumed her narrative.
‘Whatever you did, there was no impact on the timeline—not even a sense of any removal of your name.’ She was certain.
‘I told him to burn the letter. Sounds like he did.’
‘Let’s bloody hope so,’ Samuel muttered.
‘In any event, the seventeenth century does not remember you.’ Marissa made the point again.
‘Well, there we are then. Excellent. Must be a relief for your precious bloody timeline. Phew! Get on with it.’
She seemed oblivious to the heavy sarcasm.
Stung by the dismissal and with the porter beginning to take effect, Nat added, ‘You know, there are other ways to make a contribution other than being recorded on a bit of paper. I imagine that there were one or two on the way that I helped out or prevented from injury or death. Who knows how I might have changed the timeline for the better?’
‘We do,’ she replied evenly, insensitive to his wounded pride. ‘One of us would have seen—felt— the scorching on the records. Even the least skilled amongst us would have detected that. You did nothing that was not within the acceptable parameters.’
Samuel took the point up with enthusiasm, ‘You should be relieved. As far as history is concerned, you are a person of no importance at all,’ he said with some relish and not a little smugness.
‘But Florrie is, I’m guessing? So what does all of this have to do with Denzil’s appearance and her disappearance?’
‘Florence Brock has the gift. We believe that with her gift, she will be able to access the Futures Chapter. This maybe why Denzil Moorcroft desires her.’
‘His personal key to the Future?’ The threads of the web began to pull on Nat.
‘There is more,’ Marissa’s voice was cold.
‘Nothing that you can tell me will stop me finding her—insignificant or not.’
‘I know. Forgive me. I meant no offence to you, Nathanial.’ Her tone softened, ‘There are other ways for sure, that one makes a contribution and we do not put our faith solely in bits of paper. Such alterations as we detect by the flesh are …’ she struggled to find the words, ‘compelling… a fading, a scorching of the very matter around the change. It is impossible to explain.’ She wanted him to understand the nature of it. ‘It is painful to the touch. Sometimes, it is around a name—or an event—there seems to be an objection to that person or occurrence and the gall ink is hot and angry. It battles with the text itself.’ Her eyes unfocused and Nat found himself rapt by her words. ‘Tragedy surrounds such names—or cruelty, or violence. Time is a strong force which does not take kindly to being tampered with. It is a most unpleasant sensation, unsettling.’ She looked tired and sipped at her drink.
Nat looked from one to the other sensing some dreadful doom. He kept silent.
‘Florence’s marriage is recorded—as she described it…’ Marissa paused.
‘Here’s the bombshell,’ breathed Nat and then audibly, ‘Go on. Tell me. How bad can it be?’
‘Bad,’ whispered Samuel.
Marissa took a breath and said, ‘In that same parish register, there is the record of the birth of two children from that marriage: twins. The boy dies after two days but the girl survives. It is this record which was sent through the Yew to us. The fault around the timeline is… fierce.’
Nat forgot to breathe and Samuel quickly grabbed his forearms across the table as if to steady him.
‘This is unpalatable news. I beg you to let Marissa tell you all that she has discovered before you speak.’ Even Samuel felt for the man.
Nat’s mouth was dry, ‘There were no children. I know this.’ Nat dragged up buried memories, ‘After the escape, we never really talked about what she’d been through. What he’d done to me, was written on my body but she didn’t want to relive or reveal what’d happened—and I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to hear it. What good would it serve?’ his words sounded hollow to him. ‘She did tell me that the bastard wanted children—blamed her when it didn’t happen.’
‘Florence Brock was not the only reason why there were no children,’ Marissa sighed and Samuel took her hand.
‘It’s true then.’
‘Yes. Once a person has travelled, they neither bear nor pro-generate off-spring.’ She had learned the words.
The ice seeped into Nat’s veins.
Marissa pressed on, ‘Time travellers are barren—both women and men.’
The words stung him, a bombshell exploding. ‘No. How do you know? Not everyone…It can’t…’
‘It’s true, lad.’ Samuel’s voice was kind. ‘Since records were kept, there have been no children born to time travellers once they have travelled—not even the children who reach maturity.’
‘Moorcroft. Does he know?’
‘We believe so,’ Samuel was honest. ‘Amongst other things, he’s an intelligent man. He will have worked it out.’ Samuel didn’t want to mention his other suspicions—yet.
‘Shit! Then how…?’
‘…are two children attributed to that marriage? A surrogate.’
Nat groaned. ‘But he has them recorded as Florrie’s?’
‘It is a question of legitimacy,’ Marissa understood such things.
‘Tell me the rest.’ He could see further horrors in their expressions. Neither of the Taxanes spoke. ‘You’ve got something else.’ He didn’t know if he could bear to hear it.
‘Florence Moorcroft’s death is also recorded in the register.’
Suddenly, Nat found hope, ‘And that record also offends the timeline?’
‘No,’ Marissa breathed, ‘That record is as it should be.’
His heart stopped. ‘Bollocks! She didn’t stay. We’re here! There were no children! And she’s evidently not dead!’ as he’d stood, the table had rocked and a glass shattered loudly onto the stone floor. ‘There can’t be a record…’
The barman lifted his head in a discrete warning.
Samuel leaned in, ‘It is very hard to hear,’ he was unrelenting, ‘but the records do not lie. He has taken her back with him. She is where she is supposed to be.’
‘When does it happen?’ Nat croaked.
‘May, 1646. You will need to see the evidence.’ Samuel pulled a sturdy tome out of his backpack. ‘Marissa felt that a digital copy would not be appropriate. She thought that you would…’
‘Need to see the original. Yeah.’ He took the parish register of Locksley Hall church and turned to the back. 1994. Florence’s birth was recorded there—in fresh black ink. He swallowed and turned to the marked page much earlier where he saw the spindly writing of Denzil’s nervous minister. He didn’t need to see the wedding registration; he’d been there. Children’s names were recorded: Jeanette Mary Moorcroft, 1645. And, Christopher John. Nat was struck dumb. In the parallel column, the boy’s death was recorded. And then, just one page further: Florence Mary Moorcroft. Death. 26th of May Year of Our Lord, 1646. Of a fever.
‘No.’ Nat’s lips set. ‘There’s an explanation—got to be. We just don’t know what it is yet.’ He stood and slipped on his coat. His voice was firm, ‘At least one thing’s for sure: they’re not Florence’s kids. Not going to happen for us, is it?’ he couldn’t disguise his bitterness. So. When do I leave?’
39
Hades
Samuel and Marissa, walking on either side of Nat as they escorted him back up the hill, tolerated his rant. He argued all of the way, fuelled by grief and porter, wanting only to walk into an ancient tree and be in the century where Florence would be found.
‘You must trust us,’ Samuel wheezed after the effort of the climb, as they reached the lift in the apartment’s foyer and squeezed into the small box.
‘Bollocks! You give us fragments of what you actually know; you threaten our families’ lives and you tell us that there’s a bigger picture. What should I trust, Sam? Florence is in the hands of a fucking psychopath and we’re in a lift going back to a cosy apartment. I need to do something.’ Nat rubbed his hands over his face, tired, frustrated.
‘We are doing something, if you’ll bloody well pay attention. Watch,’ Samuel’s patience finally snapping. The doors closed and he pressed a fob against the blue LED information panel which slid open. A sequence on the keypad and the back panel of the lift slid open to reveal a lift startlingly similar to the one in the Taxane Enclave. It began a swift descent. Nat sobered quickly, estimating a considerable drop far beyond any basement.
Samuel was smug. ‘Taxane introduction when the apartment block was renovated. Thought it might come in handy. The shaft was already there—part of the archaeology. We simply paid a great deal of money for a secret addition.’
‘Full of surprises aren’t you?’ It wasn’t a compliment.
When the doors opened, lights kicked in and they were in a sandstone cave.
‘Nottingham’s caves. Absolute marvel. We do what we can to support their discovery,’ he chortled. ‘Over 500 of them known so far.’
‘Let me guess—not this one.’
‘No,’ Samuel grinned. ‘There are another 100 or so still to be found, some of which we have commandeered and some of which we will guide archaeologists towards—in time. The Enclave is a significant contributor to the project. Shall we go?’
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 26