She surprised them with her answer. ‘Well, there’s evidence that trees communicate with one another. They have an extensive root system beneath the ground, on which lives a fungi—the same one which eats out the heart of the wood and creates the hollow which we are able to use—the Eiffel Tower fungi. You know of it—Paris?’
Edward nodded. ‘My last return had news of it being built. I saw drawings in the newspapers.’
‘It’s this fungi that does the communicating—often over a distance of fifty feet or more. It transmits signals between the tree and its offspring—which nutrients to take from the ground; how much water to take in. We are just beginning to understand it but it’s a very sophisticated symbiotic relationship. My point is, that I don’t know whether they absorb human energies but we know there’s a reaction in us so perhaps they do. It may be a symbiotic relationship—like the fungi.’
Edward said, ‘Now you will think me quite mad but I must tell you one more thing that I have seen with my own eyes and which haunts my dreams. There is a tree—a yew—which has only a narrow hollow inside. The wood seems almost bone dry and once, in curiosity, I put in a lantern to view it. It is too narrow for a man to enter—but a child… High up in the internal walls of the trunk, I swear that I saw the bones of a small hand pressed into the wood.’ He shook his head with the memory of it. ‘I have thought long about it and my theory is that once, when the tree was young and the hollow even narrower, someone entered there—a child perhaps. The tree tried to absorb this energy, taking their essence. On the right date at the right time, the person might have been transported but something prevented this and so the tree absorbed the whole person!’
The horror of the vision silenced them. Edward was relieved to have confessed an experience which had disturbed him so. It was two or three minutes before anyone else spoke and they sipped their wine thoughtfully.
Florence broke the silence, ‘I thought that I knew trees. Seems I don’t. I’m trying to remember if there’s any of the science that might help here. We know that the trees sense us. They can also sense their enemies—like the winter moth. They produce a toxin designed to kill them! Could it be the same with us? Travellers get through but others . . .’
‘Are a parasite—toxic.’ Nat finished for her. He refilled her wine glass, thinking about the cries of those voices that he’d thought were imaginary but which might have been real.
‘One more thing,’ she said, ‘Now, I know that I’m not the only one who’s mad,’ she managed a weak smile. ‘When I touch the timbers in houses, I can feel a tingling in my hand. Not from the walls but the wooden beams. Is that a form of energy as well?’
Nat was trying to understand. ‘No. There’s something that we don’t understand. Think about it!’ he urged. ‘Thousands of people—especially children—go into those hollowed trunks. We’d know if everyone who went in suddenly disappeared! There’d be investigations. We’d know about it over the course of history.’ They agreed. ‘Maybe it’s a combination of all of it: solar flares, time of the year—the person? I could well be that we were all just lucky—or unlucky—but I doubt it. There’s something about us—sorry Margaret—that makes it possible for us. Others may not have been so fortunate. So what I think is this: we have to decide if it’s worth the risk. How much do we want to go home, Florrie? I’ll risk my life but if you want to stay then I’ll stay with you.’ He reached for her hand.
Florence knew how much that had cost him.
‘I think it’s time to go home, don’t you?’
He smiled at her. ‘We trust you, Edward—and your data. We’ll step into that tree trunk tomorrow, cross our fingers and hope that your bloody observations are accurate!’
Sir Edward Cavendish took a large gulp of the excellent red wine.
24
There Are No Guarantees In Time Travel
They ate and they drank but the mood was sombre. The decision had been made and tomorrow they would see whether Edward’s theories were correct. As disturbing and fascinating as his revelations had been, Nat had become distracted. Buskette had nudged him but he’d already noticed a number of men entering the inn in ones and twos. He might not have paid attention to them if it was just their appearance but there was something else. They had a confidence—an air of superiority and haughtiness that kept their heads high and their hands resting on sword hilts. And they were alert. Six men had seated themselves strategically around the room, all of them with their backs to the walls and their faces turned to the door. Nat recognised the look immediately: soldiers—officers at that. Despite future stereotypes, the appearance of the two armies—Royalists and Parliamentarians—was not so very different in his experience. They were all, essentially, noblemen or gentlemen, some of whom vacillated between the two causes. But here was a problem because he did know which side these men were for: Parliament. He recognised one of them as the young officer who’d been Fairfax’s aide de camp.
Nat’s short time with Sir Thomas Fairfax’s brigade had taught him to respect the general. Signing up had seemed like the answer to his problems once Florence had married Moorcroft and he’d thought that she’d rejected him. After he’d saved Fairfax’s life, the General had seemed to respect him too but Nat had asked too much of the man in accepting the rescue of Florence from her lawful husband. When faced with the choice of rescuing Florrie or staying with the army, there was no choice. He left Fairfax a note about what would happen to the King with some advice. Now he was a deserter and there’d only ever been one punishment for that.
The last thing he needed was this complication the night before they left here forever. Nat was pretty sure that they hadn’t recognised him—yet—but his arrival and departure from Fairfax’s company had been quite dramatic; one of them might just recall. He put down his tankard, caught Edward’s eye and whispered to Florence, ‘Roundheads. Stay with Margaret—it’ll look less suspicious if Edward and I step outside. We’ll see if they’re interested.
With his hat pulled down to shadow his face, Nat sauntered out and Edward followed shortly afterwards making a show of leaving the two ladies for a moment, as they left to relieve themselves. Outside, Nat drew him away from the inn and into the shade of an outbuilding.
‘Army?’ asked Edward.
‘Parliament.’
‘Do you know them?’
‘One of them. Don’t think that he’s spotted me.’
‘Damn! Might he recognise you?’
‘Yes. We need to be away from here.’
‘I agree but if we leave now, in the dark, it will arouse suspicion,’ Edward reasoned. Nat agreed. Two men emerged from the inn and stood, taking a pipe near to the doorway but in clear sight of Edward and Nat. ‘Ah. Perhaps we have already piqued interest?’
Nat and Edward feigned a hearty conversation between two well-inebriated drinking fellows and, with a great deal of back-slapping, returned to the women. Edward smiled broadly at them, ‘Please continue to smile and look relaxed as I tell you what our difficulty,’ he urged and they did.
‘So,’ trilled Florence, laughter not reaching her eyes, ‘they recognised you?’
He laughed merrily, ‘Not sure. They’re interested.’
Margaret joined in, ‘Perhaps we need not worry overly much. Deserters are quite common. This is not a popular conflict. With brother set against brother, changing sides is a problem for both armies. Neither side holds the conviction of its soldiers entirely.’ She forced a giggle.
‘Possibly,’ Nat didn’t sound reassuring. They noticed that the men in the room weren’t focusing as intently on them and concentrated on their own food but the two hovering by the door, stayed there.
Florence stood. ‘Stay there. I have an idea.’ She was already moving to the centre of the room.
‘Florence! What are you doing? Don’t attract their attention. Let us deal with this,’ Nat hissed through his smile as she slipped from his grip.
Emboldened by the prospect of tomorrow’s adventure—and
the wine—she smiled and said, ‘What on earth makes you think that I need your approval or permission for doing anything?’ she tilted her head and beamed at them and flounced off.
They watched her as heads in the room turned to look at her. She paused at the inn-keeper’s wife who went away to fetch something. A soldier stood and addressed her and Nat tensed but they conversed and the soldier smiled, offered a small bow and sat again. Florence accepted the jug of water from the inn-keeper’s wife, nodded to the soldier and came back to the small parlour. Nat couldn’t speak for irritation.
‘Keep smiling, Nat. He asked where we were heading. Told me that there were skirmishes on the Oxford road and recommended we not go that way. I explained that my husband, and our friends were heading south-west to sojourn a while with my aunt, away from the fighting and that Oxford was not for us since we were for Parliament. I thanked him for his kind advice.’
Edward hid his amusement behind his drinking glass and Margaret openly admired at her friend’s courage and resourcefulness. Her father thought that it was not necessarily a good example for the child.
Nat said nothing.
Florence and Margaret shared a sagging bed which smelled as thought it had been very recently occupied. It was warm and comfortable—even if they tended to roll towards one another because the ropes supporting the mattress were too slack. Margaret wanted to talk, to ask more questions about Florence’s world, to know just a few more precious things before she lost her confidante and seer. Florence answered, generously, thoughts of home on her mind. She told Margaret about space travel and mobile phones. She told her about women’s roles in the centuries to come—none of which surprised the girl in the slightest. Margaret’s questions started to ebb and her eyelids drooped.
‘May I ask you something?’
‘Mm . . . ’
‘Do you like Buskette?’
Immediately, Margaret’s eyes flashed open. ‘I am very fond of her. She has been a mother to me.’ She frowned, Why?’
‘Margaret . . . do you think . . . she and your father . . .?’
‘Oh! I know that she loves him. That is clear to anyone with eyes. I am no impediment to that.’
‘Then why is it, do you suppose, that your father . . . ?’
‘I am not sure. Buskette has begged me not to speak of it to him. She has made me promise. I think that she would find it . . . humiliating were he not to reciprocate. As to my father, I have some thoughts.’
‘Go on.’
‘I am what binds him to this age but there are truths which we have had to face. Florence, he will not always be able to remain by my side. Already, he looks very young to have a daughter of my age. He will have to leave me one day. I wonder . . .if he opened his heart to Constantina, then . . . ’
‘She would also bind him to this time.’
‘Yes. And he would also lose her one day. They would age differently. I think that he is afraid to love again when loss seems its only reward.’
‘Ah. Seems sad though, don’t you think? Two people who might find joy together, divided by their own fears.’
Lulled by visions of what was to come and musings on what might be, she heard Margaret’s breath deepening and realised that she was sound asleep. Florence was no where near sleep. They were so close to their goal, beset by soldiers who might take Nat for a deserter. Edward’s recent revelations buzzed through her thoughts. And then she thought of Nat’s offer to stay here if she wanted to. There it was. That was what she needed to dream on: that they were, in fact, everything to one another. What the next day would bring, she’d leave to time to unfurl. She slept very soundly—for at least three hours.
Before dawn, she was shaken awake by Margaret, ‘Quickly Florence! We must leave.’
Florence was instantly alert; they’d all slept fully dressed. On the narrow landing, three figures hovered. Florence was surprised to see that the third was Buskette. This couldn’t be good news. There was a hurried, whispered explanation. After leaving them, Buskette had shadowed the party, ensuring that no one was in pursuit and that there was no hint of the Witch Finder General. However, she had worrying news.
‘The armies are gathering, both for the King and for Parliament. This town is a fine point to take, being so high on the land. I fear that there will be more than a skirmish here. They make the shapes for battle. We would be best to be quick away.’
Edward nodded appreciatively at her, ‘Ladies, as ghosts if you please!’ They all carried their boots and shoes. As Florence used her hand for balance on the timber framed building, she could have sworn that the tingling from the wood was even more pronounced. They crept downstairs through the inn which was filled with the loud sounds of soldiers sleeping and every creaking floor board made them nervous. Men lay on pallets by the hearth. One stirred but Buskette’s dagger-butt silently put him back to sleep again before he saw anyone. They made their way to a narrow stone passage at the back of the building where a woman held a stubby candle aloft and was greeted by Buskette.
‘Mille grazie,’ she said to the inn-keeper’s wife who nodded curtly to her and gestured nervously for them to be swift. They stepped through a low door and down some cellar steps to a vaulted room. Buskette and the woman put their backs to one of the great casks lying in a cradle and pushing it to the left, revealed an opening low to the ground.
‘Straight on and you’re half a mile into the Arden near to St Edward’s,’ explained the woman, keen for them to be gone.
‘Buskette, you are a strategic genius!’ Edward congratulated her.
‘In fatto! I know this,’ and she gave a very Italian but not displeased shrug.
‘Andare con Dio,’ the woman embraced Buskette as they put on their shoes and boots and saw that their horses had already been brought round for them.
‘Who’s the woman?’ Nat hissed.
‘Italian parents—watchers. She takes a great risk for us.’
‘What would we do without you, Constantina? Will you remain here to ensure that we are not followed?’
A smile came to her face. ’Si. Certemente . . . Edward.’
It seemed to Nat that Edward had stopped issuing commands and was now asking Constantina Buskette.
Florence noted the use of Constantina.
Edward cleared his throat. ‘We were best to be at our destination without delay.’
There was no time to say further goodbyes to Buskette. A quick embrace and they were leading their horses into the obscurity of the forest. The cask shut behind them. A few minutes ride and they were at the east end of St Edwin’s church. The dark night was giving way to tendrils of a blue creeping over the spire, promising a fine day. They made their way around to the north door, with the sun beams beginning to warm them and the low mist burning off as soon as the rays touched it. Birdsong began to fill the air. It was simply achingly beautiful. The church entrance was as astonishing as Edward had described. Early English—oak of course—and set in a tracery-frame of warm stones with a pointed arch. It was created from solid wooden planks from a tree already a couple of centuries old by the time it was felled and it was held together by iron bars and hand-made nails.
It was the yews which framed it which were remarkable. Inseparable from the structure itself, their roots grew from under the church walls. They had been there long before the church was built. Mirroring one another either side of the door, their deep, emerald green foliage contrasted with the brown of their gnarled trunk and Florence had no doubt that they were part of the same tree which had coppiced itself and presented itself as the guardian of the entrance to a holy site. She wondered what had been there before the church. Something significant, she thought. A stone circle? The sight reminded Florence of a fairy tale illustration.
‘Magnificent!’ Edward exclaimed.
‘Oh, yes, father,’ and it was plain on Margaret’s face how much she wished they would open to her and transport her to those other worlds she desired to see.
‘I believe, my de
ar, that there is an intensification here. The trees, so close as they are to the wood of the door, focus the power. Certainly, I have never known them to fail me in a journey.’ He guided them to the eastern tree trunk where they found a long slit, very typical of the way in which a yew hollows out, and there they all paused.
The sun had risen and there was no time to waste. They squinted their eyes towards the light somehow hoping to see the signs of the solar flare that the records said was happening right now. Nothing could be seen beyond the brilliance that they couldn’t look into. Hurriedly, they embraced one another but could find no words to say to bless such an auspicious journey. They all hoped—perhaps prayed—and Nat soaked in his last views of this landscape which would be so changed when he next emerged from the tree. These were his last views of this England. He would have stayed if Florence had said the word but he was grateful to her for not wanting to. He remembered the shock of arriving here, searching for his family home only to discover that it hadn’t yet been built and he sighed at the thought of the warm welcome he might receive if he finally made it to that home standing as it should be, by the church in Marlborough. They didn’t know when they would emerge. It didn’t matter as long as they were together.
Florence watched the thoughts travel over his expression. ‘Does it matter which of our times?’
‘Nope. Just stay with me. Nothing’s impossible.’
And so Florence squeezed in beside him in the space which would be much wider in the future. They found a resting point. A place to be comfortable and they waited. Still, they could hear Margaret, outside, calling to them, wishing them well, saying goodbye. They heard Edward saying something about no guarantees and then, all they could hear was the pushing of the tree.
25
New Skin
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 16
