She was mollified by his promise and as they walked home, they spoke of the wonders and inventions of an age that she would never see. It was Margaret’s extraordinary education that, though they did not know it, was the prompt which brought them to the attention of the Taxane Enclave.
To comfort her, Edward told her more and of the inventions and discoveries to come and she soaked it all in, beginning to live more in that world than her own. Only when it was too late to stop, did Edward regret what she knew. If she was forced to reveal what he’d told her, she would surely be put to death. It needed only a servant to let slip how precocious the young mistress was—what strange notion possessed her…
At first, he had been loath to leave her, worried that she might feel abandoned but Margaret was stern with him, persuading him of the benefit of his journeys. The girl saw the need in him to revisit his old life and, sure of his love for her, she knew he would always return. Life had been settled and quiet until the day when Hugh Gilbert had ridden into Burcroft, demanding a private audience. It had been a pivotal moment in his life —and in Margaret’s—for it was the girl who concerned Hugh Gilbert and the Taxanes.
Gilbert told him that he knew what Edward was. He knew everything. And then he told him about the Taxanes. It wasn’t a matter of mutual support and aid. No. The Taxanes would be watching him. They would scrutinise his life at Burcroft for any sense of anachronistic behaviour. Gilbert informed him that the Taxus Mortus had been declared on Edward and his daughter. Should either of them threaten the timeline, one of them would be executed. They were guarantors of one another’s lives.
‘At present, we do not have any indication that either you or your daughter are a threat. It seems that your efforts to isolate yourself here, and to keep your knowledge of the future between you, has been effective. I must warn you though, should our Futures Chapter detect any incursion, we will intervene with our full force.’ Gilbert had been blunt.
With horror, Edward realised that not only were they—and particularly Margaret—at risk from the growing popular fears of a plague of witchcraft in the land, but the Taxanes were also a more profound threat. He became more cautious and taught Margaret how to be careful. It was a sadness that she must live in shadow.
Hugh Gilbert became a regular and unwelcome visitor to Burcroft, watching Margaret grow and learn. He insisted on interrogating her until he was satisfied that she could remain properly silent as befitted a young woman of her status. He seemed pleased with her demure posture and her lowered eyes. Gilbert threatened her with terrible retribution should she ever discuss what her father had taught her. She was suitably admonished—until the Taxane had departed and she threw back her head and laughed at the ignorant man. Edward blamed himself.
Gilbert’s visits lacked all Hephzibah in terms of his threats to Edward. He was visceral in his warnings of what might happen to Margaret should they transgress. He suffered these tirades partly because he had no-where else to hide Margaret and also that Gilbert had brought Constantina Buskette to Burcroft. They rode in together when Margaret was nine years old. The woman wore black from head to toe and when she slid from her moving horse, Edward realised that her skirts were actually divided allowing her to sit comfortably astride. It was daring. She had jet black hair, scraped into a flawless bun at the nape of her neck which was graced by the black deep collar of her jacket. The face was hidden in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat which she pulled off as she strode into the house, her eyes searching for the girl. Edward stepped into her path, blocking her and when their eyes met, hers blazed and Edward wondered where he’d left his sword.
At that moment, Margaret’s step was heard on the stair and Buskette spun around. Before Edward could reach her, she had snatched the child up, holding her at arm’s length in front of her. Edward noted the strength. The woman narrowed her eyes. Margaret narrowed hers back and then grinned at her. Before Edward could rescue his daughter, the Taxane unexpectedly brought Margaret into her body and held her there in a fierce embrace. Margaret smiled at her father over the woman’s shoulder and when she was placed on the floor, she slipped her hand into Buskette’s leaving her father and Gilbert open-mouthed. Something inexplicable had happened and the most surprised person was Constantina Buskette herself. She could not have said what it was that had created the unspoken bond with the child but from that day they became inseparable. Edward didn’t understand it but he was quite certain that Buskette would lay down her life for Margaret, a substitute for the mother she would never have and a terrifying guardian. On a more pragmatic note, he was relieved that Margaret would have another female to confide in.
Gilbert seemed irritated by Buskette’s reaction and Edward suspected that he’d planned for a more supervisory role for the woman. He explained her presence to Edward once Margaret had dragged her new companion on a tour of Burcroft. Buskette was from the Oleaxa Italiano—a branch of watchers nearly as old as the Taxanes, known for their subtle martial talents and ruthlessness. Gilbert hinted that it was thought that she would be suitable to guard Margaret and, if necessary, to defend her but Edward saw the shift in his eyes and knew that Buskette knew all about the Taxus Morte.
Quickly establishing herself in the household, Buskette observed Edward’s tutoring of his daughter, her constant tutting and expulsions of breath, signalling her disapproval but it had no impact on Edward and Margaret encouraged her to contribute her thoughts so that despite herself, she became complicit in the process. Her own contribution was to teach Margaret Cavendish, in secluded glades in the forest, to defend herself with the stiletto.
On the day, after several trips, when the parts of the microscope were finally assembled, Edward asked his daughter what she would like to see beneath its lens. Without hesitation she produced a cloth in which a beefy dead fly was wrapped.
‘You told me that these tiny beasts are miraculous to behold and I would see the details of their parts.’ She exclaimed with joy when she saw the veins of its wings and was utterly mesmerised by the eyes. It was the cause of many long discussions about the way in which the eye worked. She was a prodigy and as she grew, Edward saw how he had shaped her life. How could she marry? He saw that Buskette had caught the thought but there was only sadness in her own expression. He came to believe that Margaret’s future was dependent on the continued interest of the Taxanes and he asked Buskette if that might be so.
‘That is my hope also. They are . . . fickle, sir.’ She knew far more of their threat than she was saying but when she looked at Edward, there was no hesitation, ‘None shall harm Margaret whilst I breathe.’
Edward wanted that to set his mind at ease—but it didn’t.
Edward was tired and thirsty. Cloud had gone lame and he was leading her back to Burcroft. She carried the saddle bag where he’d placed editions of The Theatre magazine with instalments of Bleak House. Margaret would love them. The red ink which Margaret craved and Mr Darwin’s book had survived the transition—unlike the mint humbugs that he’d been looking forward to. These visits back to his own time kept him sane. He’d had enough of war and death, of ignorant superstition and primitive fears. He knew that these sojourns were selfish but Margaret understood the need for them and she persuaded himself that she benefitted from all that he managed bring with him. He had faith that Buskette would keep her safe in his absence.
Edward’s particular passion was new scientific papers and one insight fascinated him. Mr Richard Carrington had published a new and exciting study of sun bursts. Edward, searching for the science behind the trees’ powers, took note—and copies—of the papers.
A true Victorian and infected with curiosity about lost history, he lived in the seventeenth century where the origins of the great Neolithic structures across the landscape, had disappeared. The tracks used by their builders, were used only by drovers in this time. Edward mapped these features of the landscape, drawing lines between the great trees, the stone circles and ancient tracks. He was sure that there was meaning betw
een them—if only he could understand it. He mused about sun-bursts and ancient lines as he rode.
He wondered about the two strangers with Margaret. Hugh Gilbert had told him to watch for Florence Brock, a traveller with a distinctive acorn tattoo behind her ear. He was to keep her safe until the Taxanes had been alerted and they would come for her. Hugh said that a pigeon would be delivered to Burcroft on a regular basis and any message attached to the bird, would reach the Order. Edward thought that he’d never seen Gilbert look so nervous.
He sighed when he thought of the Blackman’s—for them certainly and for himself because it brought unwelcome memories of sweet Esther.What was Constantina thinking of! Indeed, what on earth would have induced her to allow such companions. A man and a woman. . . A woman. Could she be the one Gilbert had alerted him to?
Cloud was slowing. Some lameness troubling her. Edward had dismounted, to give the horse some rest, when a turn in the road revealed a fair haired man sitting uncomfortably astride a large stallion, blocking Edward’s path and showing no sign of moving. Edward halted wishing that he’d been mounted. He knew danger when it faced him.
7
An End to Pain
His piss still streaked with blood and Holless pleading with him to stay put, did not deter Denzil from clawing himself out of the bed, clinging to Holless’ arm, feeling faint with the pain of every movement. Tentatively, he paced around the room, held up by Holless and the burning hatred which drove him. A few days more, and Denzil could bear to be clothed. Holless fashioned some padded protection for him which made it possible to tolerate the cloth. The swelling reduced—a little—but the notion of mounting a horse, made Denzil’s eyes water. With every painful step, he dreamed up new ideas for tortures that he might inflict on Nat Haslet once they were reunited. For Florence, he did not need to invent; he already knew what her future would be with him. How unfortunate for her, he thought bitterly, that the blow had missed the femoral artery, for no amount of penicillin would have found a cure for that. Denzil leaned on Holless’ arm, ranting at the searing pain in his crotch and continued to improve.
The morning came when Holless came in with his breakfast and Denzil saw him almost smile. It was marginally better than the death mask he’d been sporting and Denzil felt an echo of feeling for the steward, who had been shaken by the near death episode. He tried to find room in his heart for the man who had wanted so much to be a father to him but Denzil’s heart had closed long before Holless had found him that day in the forest.
‘They’ve been seen, Denzil lad,’ Holless smirked.
Denzil winced at the familiarity but he knew how to work Holless. ‘I shall need your help, father,’ it was a costless morsel to throw him and would keep him sweet. Holless helped him dress and tend the wound and Denzil swallowed the last of his aspirin and hoped that it would make the ride bearable; he doubted it.
They watched as he mounted his horse a grudging respect on their faces, each of the band of ruffians wincing at his pain. There was no laughter. Denzil could not ride for long. He had to dismount frequently and was walking by the time they reached the small house in the forest. Spofforth, taking his ease outside, ambled to his feet on seeing his paymaster, impressed that he’d endured the journey.
Denzil suppressed the agony. ‘Where?’ he rasped, beads of sweat on his brow.
Spofforth jerked his thumb at the stable and followed Denzil over. ‘Bastard got wind of us. Barricaded the cottage. He had damned flintlocks! Snelling got one in the shoulder.’
Denzil saw the man with his back against the stable wall, blood seeping freely. He’d be of no further use. He turned back to Spofforth.
‘He was trying to bloody reload when we took him. Bastard’s stronger than ‘e looks. Screamed out for ‘is wife.’
‘Did he?’ Denzil mused. ‘I trust he is not dead?’
Caleb Blackman was strung up by his hands slumped from a beam in the stable. ‘Fools!’ screeched Denzil, leaning against an upright timber trying to relieve the agony in his groin, ‘Is he dead? For if he is…’ he wouldn’t beat these men. No. Far worse. They would not be paid.
Spofforth gave a sigh of relief that at the sound of the voices, Caleb lifted his head, looking into the distance, searching for someone.
Denzil leaned in towards him and asked quietly, ‘Where is your boy? Not come home yet?’
Caleb’s head sank back down. At a look from Denzil, Spofforth threw a bucket of water over the man. ‘Again. Where. Is. The. Boy?’ he hissed.
This time Caleb replied, smiling through bloodied teeth, ‘Gone. A-feared. Simple lad.’
Spofforth landed a heavy punch in the man’s kidneys and Caleb spat blood but said nothing.
‘It is of no consequence. Warning Cavendish will not aid you.’ Satisfied that the man was susceptible to a more thorough interrogation, Denzil left him there and made his way to the cottage, threatening Spofforth not to beat him further—yet.
‘Jesus Christ! What is that stink?’ Denzil put his hand to his face as he entered the cottage. His nose was offended before his eyes had become accustomed to the dark interior. He pulled a handkerchief to his face.
‘The woman. She has the wasting disease,’ Holless told him.
Denzil stepped back, ‘Is she. . . festering?’
‘She is dying.’
A groan from the cot and a small movement showed that Mercy was not asleep. Her body twisted feebly as the relentless agony of the cancer bit in. ‘Caleb…’ she wheezed.
Denzil grinned and stepped out of the sour room, the woodland air clearing the stench of death from his nostrils.
‘Bring her,’ he commanded.
Ezra Holless squatted down beside the woman, ready to gather her up and carry her to the stable. She groaned.
‘Please…my husband…’ her voice was barely audible as she pleaded with the gaunt man, hovering like the Reaper above her.
‘Hear me, woman. I can do nothing for him but I may ease your passing.’ He had taken the small bottle of morphine from the spot where Caleb had been taken and now he brought it to her lips. ‘Drink.’
‘No. God’s will… I suffer… go …with spotless soul,’ her eyes were wide with helpless horror.
‘Fool. Your maker does not desire your suffering. Now drink.’ He lifted her head a little as she, unable to resist, was forced to swallow the bitter fluid. He watched for the reaction and saw her eyes roll up into her head. She was moments from her final death rattle but Denzil need not know that. Holless gagged as Mercy’s bowls released in grim death but he gathered her up and carried her to the stable.
‘Mercy. . .’ moaned Caleb.
Denzil was amused by the notion of the woman’s name. This man had no idea.
Holless handed Denzil the emptied potion bottle and he sniffed it. ‘Smells like a witch’s brew to me,’ grinned Denzil in triumphant understanding. Somehow, they had acquired morphine. Denzil wondered how. The bottle was empty. He pulled Holless aside and whispered, ‘Dead?’
‘I believe so. The Lord has…’
‘Don’t spout your prattle to me! Say nothing to the husband.’
Holless nodded dumbly.
‘Caleb,’ the man was now conscious, ‘Now that sweet Mercy has joined us, let us to the nub of it. You will tell me what I require to know.’
Caleb’s focus was all on his wife.
‘Should you refuse then perhaps I shall address my attentions to your fragrant wife.’ Caleb’s look was horror and fury.
‘Mercy’s pain is dulled under the influence of the morphine—which I believe Cavendish brings you—but she is waking, Caleb, emerging from pain-free oblivion, to know again every bite of the disease that devours her. You understand me?’
Caleb’s eyes blazed.
‘So. Her fate is in your hands. She can pass into a final sleep or she can awaken, watch you die and then we will leave her to rile in her agonies on the barbs of her own slow death.’ He waited for it to hit Caleb. ‘I will not end her misery
, for I am not acquainted with mercy,’ Denzil laughed.
Caleb’s loyalty to Sir Edward was as nothing compared to his love for his wife. ‘Whatever you need to know I will tell but first, let her drink of the potion.’
Holless lifted the woman’s head and put the empty bottle to the dead woman’s lips. Caleb sobbed once and with the final piece of his heart broken, he told Denzil all that he knew about Sir Edward Cavendish.
‘Thank you Caleb. Now, there was a woman and a man travelling together? They were with Margaret Cavendish according to your son.’
There was a brief moment when Caleb sensed Denzil’s uncertainty and might not have spoken but then Denzil moved towards Mercy’s cot.
‘Yesterday. No names.’ He had barely enough breath.
‘Tell me something of them. Something that you noted.’
Caleb knew he was a dead man and he had no loyalty to the strangers. ‘The woman had. . . . boys’ hair.’
It was enough to describe the habitually cropped hair of Florence who, it seemed, was now in the company of Margaret Cavendish—and the man was surely Nat Haslet. Some minutes passed before Denzil Moorcroft had extracted all he could from Caleb. Finally, he discovered which path Cavendish was likely to take back to Burcroft.
It was Caleb’s last act of loyalty to lie to this bastard.
‘We will leave you now, Caleb. I need to meet this Cavendish. You can watch her as you die,’ he threw at the tortured man.
‘An angel watches me, as a devil you,’ Caleb wheezed.
Holless was careful not to look back, knowing that the woman was dead and the man was breathing his last. It was his small mercy. Had Caleb known, he would have blessed him for it.
Later, when there were no more sounds of the wicked men, Peter emerged from the woods and found his parents in the barn. He whimpered when he saw his father tied and bleeding and he cut him down. Then he crawled over to his mother and lifted her into his arms, cradling her like a baby.
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 5
