Denzil was nervous. Burcroft had looked defenceless and Spofforth had assured him that it would be easily taken. Now there were more firecrackers and, not only had the horses bolted, but men were nervous. Noise surrounded them and all was confusion. Instinctively, they drew together and backed away from the approaching melee. Too late, Denzil realised his mistake.
Buskette had trained her people well. She had chilled the blood of simple farming stock cold by telling them stories of the sights that she’d seen before—and after—battles. She told them of murders for a hunk of bread; women raped in villages and evil attackers who would think nothing of killing babes. Such men as they would fight, were hardened by the carnage of war and they would strike first and think later. They would have no conscience and would take what they needed and slaughter indiscriminately, she told them.
At first, the Burcroft men had been reluctant to be instructed by a woman but as they listened to Buskette, they decided that it was better that they knew what to do in order to defend their own. Besides, she was a very tartar if denied. Through drills and relentless practice, this unlikely troupe became trained in guerrilla activity and in stealth combat. Unlike Denzil’s mercenaries, they fought for hearth and home.
No one—not even Buskette—had prepared them for the aftermath of landmines. They had herded their prey into the traps set for them and then Buskette had raised her hand and the message passed down the line that they should stop.
Nat had seen the effects of landmines and he wasn’t shocked but he was surprised by the extent of the carnage. Had this all been done by gunpowder? He’d only seen gunpowder used here in cannon balls and in muskets. It wasn’t a very controllable powder. The bodies and limbs spattered amongst the trees and undergrowth here, spoke of something else. It was like an abattoir and the iron tang of blood was in everyone’s nostrils. The men approached cautiously in a line, halted by the carnage as it came into focus through the mist of brimstone. They didn’t need to be told to pause; the vision of hell was enough.
Edward spoke clearly, ‘This is a task for the morning when we are rested and our stomachs are fortified. Leave these remains tonight. We will deal with this…slaughter, tomorrow. Remember, these men would have killed you and those you hold dear.’ Yes, thought Edward. I will send them out later to burn the bodies. They have had enough for this day. He would ensure that there was plenty of ale for them that night.
The men turned, wishing that they could wipe the sight from their memories. They didn’t need any encouragement to withdraw to the house. None of them spoke.
Buskette and Edward drew towards Nat who was still scanning the clearing for one body in particular. He made to step forward but Buskette’s arm extended across him.
‘Per favore. Let me remove the fuses.’ She stepped carefully between the mutilated flesh, knowing where each explosive package had been set. With a sharp knife, she slit the fuse cord which linked each one of them. They’d all fired. Clutching a handful of fuses, Buskette nodded curtly, inviting them in to the hellish glade.
Nat’s eyes scanned the bodies, and fell on one dressed in the tatters of fine clothes—Denzil’s clothes. He used his boot to turn it over. Remnants of fair haired, matted with gore, clung to the scalp. He looked to have been clean shaven, but his face was impossible to identify. At least the man was dead. Nat thought that it was likely Moorcroft, the exposed jaw seeming to mock him in a rictus grin. He couldn’t see Holless—but then there were a great many bodies in parts that couldn’t be identified as whole men.
‘Is it Moorcroft, do you think?’ Edward asked.
Nat’s voice had an edge to it. ‘The clothing’s right.’
‘And his man, Holless?’
‘I don’t see him.’
‘Do you think that he has been dispatched to send for Matthew Hopkins?’
‘Perhaps—but it’s rare for him to leave Moorcroft’s side.’
‘Then we may hope.’
‘Yeah. It’s a bastard…hope.’
There was a heavy silence broken by the occasional snap of a branch or the thrump of flesh landing on the forest floor. Nat wanted Florence to be with him but not here. ‘Where is she, Edward? At least I can tell her that this attack is over and that Moorcroft is probably dead.’
‘Yes. Let us alert them that all is done,’ Edward surveyed the human debris. ‘I am pleased that they were spared this memory.’
15
Gunpowder
Florence didn’t realise that she was pacing the cave until Margaret sighed and gave her a long stare. She wasn’t claustrophobic but the sense of all that rock pressing down from above…
She watched Margaret reading, smugly confident in the security of the place. The girl’s faith in her father was unshakable, thought Florence as she opened Nicholas Nickelby, trying to focus on the tiny print and straining to hear anything at all beyond the room. It was odd to be so isolated from all reference points—no sense of time, day or night; no view and no respite from the suffocating, flat acoustic. Dickens wasn’t helping, so she began to pace again.
Margaret sighed and closed her book. ‘Does Nat Haslet intend to marry you?’ Margaret enjoyed provocative questions.
‘He hasn’t asked—and neither have I.’ Florence could be provocative too. ‘We’re enough—for now.’ She’d married Denzil out of necessity but there was no coercion in being with Nat. She didn’t need to marry him.
Margaret had given the matter some thought. ‘But you must marry. How will you present yourself to the world if not?’ Her eyebrows rose. ‘There is the impediment of your current husband, of course,’ Margaret could also be precocious and irritating.
Florence snorted, ‘He’s no husband of mine.’
‘But you undertook the ceremony, repeated the vows, stood before the minister…the witnesses?’
‘Yes,’ this was starting to be annoying, ‘but it was under false pretences. The circumstances…I was forced…I cannot be expected…’ Florence didn’t want to go into that territory which touched on Denzil’s abuse of her. Margaret didn’t need to hear that.
She persisted, ‘I am young, Florence but I believe I understand what a contract of marriage is. Is it so readily put aside in your own age? Surely it brings expectations, which may not be liked, but which you cannot disregard at will?’
Margaret was building a head of steam, thought Florence.
‘Are you not indeed married to Denzil Moorcroft. Unless my father rids you of that problem, you cannot marry Nat and if you cannot marry him, my question remains: how will you present yourself here?’
Florence was riled. Here it was again: her life reduced to her marital status. She was very tired of the compromises she was expected to make. She’d tamed her twenty-first century values to this bloody age. Perhaps it was time for Margaret to hear of a different—a better way—that the future would bring for girls like her. She clicked her tongue, ‘My time?’ Florence’s eyes flashed.
Margaret’s open expression was a tabular rasa and Florence was about to re-write the girl’s understanding of what was to come for women. She began slowly, ‘Yes. Marriage remains an option for some—but so is divorce. If two people discover that they are not suited, or when one of the partners is unfaithful or abusive, they split.’ She enjoyed watching Margaret’s wide-eyed surprise. ‘Divorce is usually quick and straightforward and there’s no stigma attached to it—except by the church—but they don’t get a say; it’s done through the law.’ And now Florence delivered the coup de grace. ‘Actually, most couples tend to live together without the need for permission from the state or church. They have children together and no one bats an eye-lid.’
‘The church does not have to sanctify marriage?’ Margaret gasped.
Florence let loose, ‘Nope. Nor Judaism, Islam or the many other religions in our society. Why would it? Most people aren’t religious. It’s an anachronism, Margaret.’ And looking at the girl’s face, Florence stopped short of describing same sex partnerships and marr
iages.
The young woman closed her mouth and was quiet but if Florence thought that Margaret would clam up in outraged sensibility, she was wrong.
‘Then, what binds you to another if there are no vows?’ the girl asked quietly.
‘Mutual respect, friendship—love! We become quite civilised—eventually!’ Florence smiled smugly.
Margaret fell silent. Her father regularly confronted her with paradigm shifts so that she was well used to being challenged with philosophical positions. She’d learned not to make swift judgements until she understood better. ‘And the children?’
‘The children?’
‘Are the parents bound to their children by love alone? What becomes of the children when the parents divorce or when they are no longer bound to one another by their love?’
Margaret Cavendish! Such a precocious talent for finding the tender point of an argument. Florence was forming a reply and wondering what history would make of the woman she would become, when the dull silence in their underground bunker was broken by a stone rattling its way down through a terracotta pipe and bouncing onto the stone floor.
Margaret tossed her Pickwick Papers aside with an urgency that said she’d not been as relaxed as she’d suggested. She scooped the stone up hungrily and tore open the heavy sheet of paper tightly bound to it by waxed twine, and read it by the candle.
Florence waited.
‘It is now safe for us to leave, my friend,’ she smiled broadly.
‘A message? How can you be sure?’
Maggie thrust the paper towards her and Florence stared. It was in code but that didn’t make it safe. She began to say so.
‘There is a word which, if included in the message, is a clear signal that my father is under duress and it is not safe. However, all is well. It is time for us to depart and for me to complete Mr Dickens’ story another time.’ Margaret replaced the book on the shelf with a sigh. ‘Father designed this place so that only those within might effect an exit. However, it has never been put into use and I think we must need prepare ourselves.’ There was a glint in her eye. ‘I can see that you are impatient to leave so let us begin. First, we must place the table at the end of the room and upend it so that we might shelter behind.’
Florence’s eyes widened.
‘And then you must help me to expose the fuse.’
‘Fuse!’
‘Of course. Fear not. My father is an excellent . . . ’
‘Engineer. Yes. I know! But we’re talking about explosives! In such a small space!’
‘My father says the table . . . ’
‘I hope that he’s as bloody good as you think he is,’ Florence muttered, helping her drag it over to the far wall.
Margaret prickled a little at the jibe, as she handed Florence a spoon and together they began to scrape away at a spot on the wall which was not actually stone but packed earth. A glass tube was exposed which Maggie smashed to release the end of a fuse line. She pulled through a foot or so of the coiled cable.
‘Now Florence. Take the blankets and retreat to behind the table. I shall join you very shortly. Father advises me to be quick.’
Florence hesitated. Surely it should be her who ought to stay and light the fuse.
Seeing the look Margaret added, ‘Please, friend. I am rehearsed in this—and you are not.’
‘Don’t linger,’ Florence urged as she peeked from behind the table, thinking how that was less than helpful.
Maggie took a match and lit the fuse which caught immediately. She bolted for the small shelter where they covered themselves in the heavy blanket and wrapped their arms around one another. Maggie lifted her chin slightly, ‘It should not be so long. Father says . . . ’
WHOOMPH! The air was sucked away from them as the wall burst open. It was the pressure wave which hit them whilst the boom was muffled within the earth. They coughed and spluttered. Dust filled the space and Maggie shook at the unexpected power of the blast. She would take her father to task for not explaining that aspect of it.
Florence grabbed her hand and dragged her across the room towards where the air was beginning to clear and there was a swirl of fresh air. There was no point in speaking because neither could have heard anything with their ears still ringing. The newly made opening began to rise upwards into a circular space and Florence could see stars between the clouds far above her head. Maggie, still struggling with her breathing, was in shock. She held Florence’s hand tightly, her confidence gone, allowing Florence to lead her to the iron rungs, embedded in the wall of this dry vent. They climbed up, out of the mayhem below and towards the clear, fresh night.
Breeching the top of the vent, Florence saw only the forest. They clambered out, working against the restrictions of their clothes, wheezing, and flopping onto the ground unable to speak or hear until she felt herself lifted by strong arms which held her tight. As the dust cleared, Nat’s worried face appeared and taking her face in his hands, he kissed her dusty lips. Florence gasped for air and then threw her arms around him and held him until she stopped shaking.
Nat and Edward had taken shelter from the blast but they too were taken by surprise by the force of it. Edward later observed that he may have overdone the gunpowder a little on this too—but that it was always better to be sure rather than sorry. Maggie had to extricate herself from the tightness of her father’s bear-hug and he continued checking that she was undamaged beneath the debris which coated her. Little by little the women patted away the worst of it and their eye lids and lips became flesh coloured again.
Florence coughed and rasped, ‘Where is he?’
Nat understood, ‘Dead.’ We hope. His smile did not reach his eyes.
‘Show me.’
Edward did not want Margaret to be curious. ‘We saw a body—in gentleman’s clothing. Nat was sure that they were Moorcroft’s. The explosion . . . prevented further identification.’
Nat clarified, ‘Sir Edward and Buskette laid a mine field. We herded Moorcroft and his men. It’s…messy.’
Seeing the shock on Margaret’s face, Edward explained, ‘Taking Moorcroft captive or discouraging him with mere injury, would not have deterred him, my dear. He would simply have renewed his search for them,’ he turned his head to Nat and Florence, ‘and would certainly have taken a measure of revenge on us. If we are correct and the body is indeed his, the threat is ended. It was the only sensible option. Our men will clear the remains in the morning.’ He put Margaret’s arm through his and guided her back towards the house and Florence and Nat followed.
Nat’s arm was supportive around her waist but Florence noticed that he didn’t say anything. They knew too well that Denzil Moorcroft was not easily killed.
When he was sure that the flesh-spattered clearing was deserted and that nothing stirred, Holless stepped out from his hiding place and trod carefully between the bodies. If he’d been in the centre of the clearing at Denzil’s side, he would be dead. He hadn’t gone far on his mission to find Matthew Hopkins when he’d heard the firecrackers and then the explosions. Holless had heard both sounds before. Bonfire Night had always found youths playing silly devils with bangers and later, the sound of bombs falling near by became too familiar. Oh yes. He knew that sound.
He turned his horse and returned to witness the aftermath of Cavendish’s trap. He turned over Spofforth’s body with his foot. The man had become truculent before he’d left. Burcroft did not seem such easy pickings as it had and he wanted more. Denzil had no shillings left, he explained, pulling idly at his deep lace cuff. Moments later, Spofforth pranced and preened in Denzil’s fine clothes, pleased with the hard bargain he’d driven but Holless had seen the satisfaction on Denzil’s face when he donned the villain’s rough clothing—and disguise. Now, Spofforth’s face had gone and although the two men were of similar stature, Holless would know his lad anyway. He searched doggedly, turning over bodies, until he found the one he’d been looking for; the only one who mattered.
He fell to hi
s knees beside the flaxen haired man, face down in the leaf mould. The explosion had thrown him out of the clearing and hidden him behind a fallen log. Holless clutched the bloodied jacket in his fist and leaned in close, praying for signs of life but he could sense none and he gave a hollow groan as he started to drag the body away from the clearing and towards the horse as best he could. He sobbed as he walked—a father’s grief for his only child. Holless had been alone for so long before Denzil and would be alone again until he died in this damned place.
The lad’s body was heavy but he would give the boy a decent burial. Holless’ loss was deep, tears running down his face as he carried the boy away from the carnage. They snagged at a rock and as Holless tugged the body to pull it free, he heard a small moan and fell, amazed, on the body, seeing the eye-lids flicker with life. He gasped with joy and then, with his last strength, he hoisted Denzil Moorcroft onto his shoulder and carried him away into the forest to mend him.
16
Home Truths
Buskette recommended to Edward that the bodies must be burned. Burial was not an option for so many. Too many questions. Too many graves. She gathered everyone in the stable yard and Edward surveyed them. These farm labourers, kitchen maids, stable lads—and Hephzibah—had done what Buskette had trained them for and become a small army. They had fought off a marauding band of vile men—and they had won. Remarkable. But the energy that they’d found during the battle had been replaced with weariness and horror. Families drew together and friends sought one another. Violent death did that. Some of these men had seen the carnage in the clearing and some of them must return there and dispose of the bodies. He would be with them.
Edward smiled at Elijah, running around the yard until his father’s strong hand took hold of him in passing and halted the lad to listen respectfully to what their master had to say. Everyone was expectant.
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 10
