‘Nor I you.’ He touched her lips with his, not caring if it offended Cavendish’s propriety. ‘We’ll get rid of Moorcroft once and for all.’
‘Do it. Kill the bastard.’
Edward coughed, ‘Perhaps, if you have completed your discussion? I assure you Florence, you will have a significant role to play in the defence of Burcroft. Margaret will explain all to you. We each work to our strengths here. There will be suitable weaponry where you are headed.’
Nat looked her in the eye, ‘Don’t hesitate, Florrie. Mean to kill.’
Margaret took her hand and pulled her away. Buskette was rushing down the stairs. ‘Here. I find these useful. They will fit.’ She handed over a skirt and Margaret laughed. Florence was confused until she lifted the fabric and discovered that it had been divided. They were, in fact, hugely baggy trousers. No one would have known that they were anything other than a full skirt—unless they saw the woman in action: fighting, climbing, riding or . . . running.
Buskette looked embarrassed. ‘There are . . . restraints in being a woman in this world. I have always preferred to make accommodations.’
‘Thank you. Let me tell you about jeans one day.’
‘Si. I look forward to it.’ Buskette quickly embraced Margaret and left them.
10
Bolt Hole
‘Fear not. We have drilled for this eventuality for as long as I can remember. We each know our role.’ Margaret sounded excited as she pulled Florence along to the kitchen where Cook waited for them.
‘It is time, Hephzibah,’ Margaret was breathless. The woman had already begun to load food into a flour sack: bread, hard cheese, cured ham and a bag of dried plums. Everything was stacked by the fireplace. Hephzibah and Margaret checked that the doors were locked and then took up positions on either side of the wide hearth. She and the cook lifted the iron roasting-spit, levering it backwards towards the chimney. The ashes shivered, pluming into clouds as the hearth-stone ground backwards, revealing a steep set of stone steps leading into the black chasm below. They wafted the dust away and coughed.
‘Quickly. We have no time to lose,’ coughed Margaret.
Florence hesitated but the cook gave her a reassuring smile, ‘It’s a safe place, mistress. Non’ull discover you there. Follow on. Quickly now.’ She bustled them towards the steps and Florence followed Margaret into the void, blind in the blackness of it.
Maggie fumbled in her pocket and Florence heard the surprising strike of a match and then there was quivering candlelight. The staircase disappeared beyond the bubble of warmth. The narrow treads meant stepping sidewards and the divided skirts helped a little. Her hand felt the sandy wall on one side but, on the other, there was nothing except the aching abyss. She focused on not falling. Into the space, descending on a faster route into the blackness, was a provision bag lowered on a rope by Hephzibah.
She was watching the bag descend when Margaret called back, ‘Take care! A turn.’
Florence shuddered to a halt, feeling her balance fail her as she looked at the opening above, now a pinprick of light. She could find no hand-hold on the stair wall. It made her feel dizzy.
Her feet were aching as they found the stone floor. The provisions had landed before them and were unfastened, the ropes shooting back upwards and disappearing with the grind of the hearth-stone, closing.
‘Stay for a moment.’ Margaret stepped into the darkness with her candle, until she found a wall torch. The light illuminated a small room— with two wheel barrows. They loaded them up with the sacks and Florence sent up a silent hope that Hephzibah would not forget them here. Unbidden, the vision of the oubliette at Montebray made her mouth dry.
Margaret saw the reaction, not understanding its cause. ‘Never fear, Florence. My father is a very able engin-eer.’ She said the word with some relish, it clearly being akin to ‘dinosaur’ in its impressiveness.
The sconce proved to be another lever, activating a stone portal and a corridor opened up beyond. Margaret replaced the burning torch with a spare unlit one, clearly kept for just such a purpose and then wheeled the first barrow forward. Florence followed.
‘Step back,’ Margaret flipped another lever and a stone was released, thundering down to block the entrance. ‘Fear not. Nothing will have been heard above.’
That wasn’t Florence’s main worry; there was no way back through there, she realised. They pushed the barrows through an arched tunnel of fifty feet or so, hewn from the bed-rock, the wheels making little sound on the earthen floor. It was warm work in the stale air. Finally, they came into another room.
This time, Florence needed no warning as Margaret smashed a wedge jammed into the doorway, with a hammer and an iron barrier sliced down like a guillotine. They were sealed in. Margaret exhaled triumphantly, wiping her dusty face. ‘Safe. Once triggered, this gate cannot be opened. Should intruders reach thus far, they will not reach us.’
Florence looked up feeling the weight of the rock above her and wondering how Nat would find her. She could hear nothing outside of this . . . cave.
A wide bed occupied a corner, with blankets stacked upon shelves, together with several books. The central table had two rough chairs and in another corner was a water butt, with a stand holding a bowl. If the accommodation was rustic, the engineering was not. A narrow wooden pipe fed into the water butt with a steady trickle of water dripping into it and below it, a drain. The roof of the cave-room was pricked with a number of wider tubes and when Florence stood beneath one of them, she felt a faint wisp of fresh air—but no light. A smaller recess, housed a simple earth-closet smelling remarkably like her grandmother’s greenhouse. Stacked against the wall was an impressive store of heavy duty candles and dozens of boxes of Bryant and May ‘Flaming Fuses’—matches! The room was comfortably warm.
Margaret watched as she absorbed it all and asked, ‘Father has invested much time in ensuring its functionality. Are not these small fuses miraculous? We have fresh rain water from above and air—although when it rains I will confess there is some dampness!’ Maggie was gleeful as she dashed around the room showing Florence each miracle. ‘I assisted my father in furnishing the room. Hephzibah and Buskette know of it—oh, and Caleb and Peter—they helped father with the mining of it all. Peter is extraordinarily strong, you know. Father shared it only with those he trusts with my life. He will be pleased that the barrier works. We have never used it before,’ she confided.
‘I stand amazed, Margaret. Your father is a man of great resource, I think. But . . . these objects? The books—H.G. Wells, Dickens, Keats,’ she ran her fingers along their spines, ‘He brought all of these through.’ The truth was beginning to dawn on her.
Margaret grinned.
‘God! He travels to and fro . . . and more than once!’ Home suddenly seemed closer. She needed to tell Nat. He would be ecstatic.
‘Yes and he always comes home to his family—to me.’
Florence sensed the girl’s vulnerability, ‘You . . . cannot?’ She saw that Margaret was what held her father here. Of course he always came home to her.
‘It is a great sadness to me—and a considerable irritation,’ she tried to smile.
‘And how often . . . ’
‘Oh, not so very often. When mother was still with us, he travelled regularly— for the medicines. Afterwards, he preferred to remain but as I grew and understood, I saw the sadness in him at being tethered so. I insisted that he made those journeys.’ She gathered herself, strengthening her voice. ‘Why should I be denied the wonders of the future when he can bring them to me! Now, he goes when there is something which we need,’ she indicated the matches. ‘He spoke of them so often and missed their use so much that he returned with a very large number and several burns about his person,’ her lips twitched. ‘He tells me the transition can be . . . invigorating.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Florence admitted. ‘It rendered me unconscious—senseless,’ she added at the girl’s confusion.
‘Now
I am older, I sometimes insist on an item that we might need, for I see the sadness on Father’s face for that life which he misses and so I make him go. He knows that I will be safe with Buskette and I know that he will always come home. It is not so very different to a merchant who travels to far off lands, bringing exotic treasures home—except, of course, that these treasures we must keep secret. We walk a dangerous path for if they were discovered we would both be burned at the stake and no mistake. If the inquisitors were to question us . . . the Witch-Finder . . .’ She shuddered. ‘So, I think, Florence, that we shall be spending some time with these wonderful stories! My only regret is that Mr Dickens’ new work which father promised me, is probably still in his saddlebag.’ Margaret was really a very remarkable 13-year-old indeed.
Florence turned around, hoping that the room might be more than it seemed but it remained fifteen feet square, mined into the rock, a man-made cave! They had light and food and the temperature was steady this far underground but already she felt trapped, her eyes rising to the stone ceiling above and those slim pipes which now were their sole link to the world above. She wondered what Nat was doing.
11
Suffer The Children
Fifteen meters above Florence and Margaret, the cogs of the defence machinery of Burcroft Park ran smoothly. Buskette had ensured that each was well-rehearsed in their role—on the premise of the war reaching their lands and the need to be prepared for it. Lower windows were boarded with prepared panels, hidden in cupboards and cellars; sturdy gates were firmly closed and barred, and men and women knew their places at strategic points around the perimeter of the grounds.
To Nat’s surprise, he watched a small canon being hauled out of the stables and placed strategically in the centre of the courtyard. Men wiped away the straw and chicken droppings covering its tarpaulin and women carried cannon balls in their upturned aprons and piled them beside it. The wadding was brought out in a linen chest and finally, a barrel of gunpowder arrived on a wheel-barrow. Nothing was rusty or decrepit. It was all as ready as it should be—Buskette oversaw it all.
Others, under the shrill instructions of Hephzibah, ably dragged strategic pieces of furniture, blocking windows and doors. Kitchen knives and domestic implements—those that could do damage to flesh and bone, were put to alternate use, including a weighty metal ladle, which Hephzibah twirled with ease. Trunks and boxes were opened, ominously packed with strips of clean bandages and they readied pots for boiling water. Even the young had their roles, bearing messages to and fro and carrying water flasks. Such well-rehearsed exercises calmed them through their familiarity.
The clashes between righteous armies had been building for months but had had little impact on Burcroft insulated from that world by Sir Edward Cavendish—for his own reasons. His people weren’t fools. They were grateful for the good life here. They were paid well and cared for even into their infirmity; they would not be reliant on hard-pressed family or the parsimonious drippings of parish charity. They had justice too. Sir Edward took his duties seriously and any one of them could bring a complaint to his table and they would be heard. They were a small group—family— and they would defend Burcroft Park.
Nat and Sir Edward faced the iron gates, scanning the land beyond for signs of Moorcroft and his men. Side by side, awaiting the attack to come, they were still wary of one another, their qualities and weaknesses unknown but bound to one another in the fight to come and with a common enemy.
Hephzibah spoke briefly into Sir Edward’s ear. He thanked her and she waddled off, ladle at arms. ‘Margaret and Florence are safe. We may put aside our fear for them and focus on what is to come.’
He saw Nat’s questions begin to form and he added, ‘I will explain all but be assured, their small fortress is impenetrable, deep below us and they are secure. You have my word.’
Nat looked down at his feet and he tapped the earth with his foot. Edward gave half a smile. ‘Too far for that to reach them, man.’
‘Caves?’
‘Partly—and mines. Florence could not be safer than with my daughter. You understand?’ Edward’s eyes bored into him.
Nat did. It was his daughter that Edward protected and if Florence was with her, she was safe.
‘And if you are unable to . . . rescue them? Tell me how.’
‘No.’ There was no hesitation. ‘Think, man. Would you want Moorcroft to be able to prise that information from you? Fear not. Margaret knows the way home.’
Nat had to be satisfied.
‘Tell me Nat,’ he looked straight ahead, ‘why is it that you fear this Moorcroft so?’
Nat stared ahead. ‘Are you familiar with what torture can do to a man, Sir Edward?’
‘I can only imagine. I have not encountered the like of it in person.’
‘I have—at the hands of Denzil Moorcroft. It isn’t difficult to extract information through torture but it is an intimate relationship. The victim learns much about the inflictor.’
Edward turned his head and looked at him.
‘Moorcroft enjoys a perverse pleasure in the pain he inflicts. He is . . . enlivened by it. I am not afraid of Moorcroft for myself. I am afraid of what he might do to others if he has the chance.’ He turned his head so that the two men now looked at one another. ‘Do not allow Denzil Moorcroft to take your daughter.’
Edward Cavendish’s lips parted but he didn’t speak for a few seconds. He cleared his throat. ‘Walk with me man and we will find arms for you. Buskette tells me you are a soldier.’
‘I had the honour of serving with Lord Thomas Fairfax.’ Nat spoke the truth; he’d admired the general.
‘And yet you deserted his company,’ Edward observed.
‘Tell me. What would you not do to protect your daughter?’
Edward was still. ‘Indeed. Come. Let us find you a suitable blade.’ He clapped Nat heavily on the back so that Nat stumbled forward a little.
‘I’d rather have an Uzi,’ Nat muttered to himself. He kept pace with Sir Edward as he strode around his fortress, sharing a small joke with one and patting the odd arm or head where needed. Rounding the corner of the house, a small boy collided with Edward at an unfortunate height. ‘Ooomph!’ he exhaled, bent over.
Nat’s mouth formed a empathetic O.
The child stopped and rubbed his forehead, similarly bruised. ‘Pardon Sir. I was taking this to Hephzibah.’ He held up a tied leather bag in one hand and a clutch of squares of cloth in the other.
‘And what is it, lad?’ Edward wheezed, trying to stand upright and leaning on the boy’s shoulder for support.
‘Pepper sir!’
‘Pepper. Does Cook intend to season our enemies . . . ?’
‘Elijah, sir.’
‘Of course. Benjamin’s son.’
The boy nodded, pleased to be remembered.
‘The pepper, Elijah?’
‘Aye, sir. I is to put a “gen’rous pinch’’ —he mimicked the voice of Hephzibah perfectly— ‘a gen’rous pinch, into each bit ‘o cloth, twist it and tie it and then pass them out among the little ‘uns. If the bad men should come near us, we is to open it up and wipe it in their faces . . . sir.’ He recounted his instructions to the letter but both men were thinking the same thing: if these children were close enough to Moorcroft’s thugs to push pepper in their faces, they were close enough to be killed.
‘Well.’ Edward looked carefully into the lad’s large brown eyes, determined to remember this one for the future. A brave soul. ‘Well, now. I can see that you are a good soldier, Elijah and the pepper is an excellent idea, but even better would be for you to remind all of the children to keep well hidden and to escape the wicked men at all costs—even if it means running into the woods and away from Burcroft. Is that plain, little captain?’
There was a moment’s confusion on the child’s face. ‘Do you not want us to fight unto the death, sir?’
Edward swallowed, ‘No, Elijah. I do not. I want you to live to fight another day. These are
my orders.’ He paused, ‘I shall need good men, such as the likes of you, in the future. You must grow up for me.’
The boy’s face brightened. ‘Aye, sir. I shall do that. Can I have a sword?’
Edward shook his head and sighed, ‘Pick a dagger. It will handle the easier.’
As they walked away, Nat said, ‘Product of the times, eh? I have been in wars in foreign lands where children smaller than Elijah were pressed into battle, wielding men’s weapons, threatened with their lives should they refuse, sent out to die. Children should not be faced with such conflict.’
‘No, they should not,’ Edward agreed, squaring his shoulders and wiping his face with his hand, ‘I hope the boy does not have use for his dagger—or Hephzibah’s pepper. Have you any idea how much pepper costs!’
Burcroft Park was ready. They went to the upper floor and looked out of the long gallery towards the front gate. It was the perfect vantage point from which to see what approached but its glass windows offered no protection, Nat thought. Edward poured wine, and they pulled up chairs facing the view. It was the most civilised pre-battle experience that Nat had ever experienced.
‘May I ask a question of you?’
‘Only one, Sir! I have a thousand to ask of you!’ Edward grinned but was less flippant when he saw Nat’s expression. ‘Ask.’
Nat swallowed the sweet liquid and looking around to ensure that they were not overheard, said, ‘You have recently returned from which year?’
Edward looked around him, ‘1878.’
‘1878,’ Nat echoed, allowing his head to fall onto the chair-back. ‘You know the way home.’
Edward leaned in to Nat. The thrill of sharing his discoveries with someone other than Margaret, was irresistible. ‘Not always to an exact point,’ he confided. ‘I believe that there are factors which can direct one—I am investigating—but I believe that with a better understanding of the. . .’ the excitement in his voice caught in his throat.
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 7
