She nodded, not knowing what else to do but leave. He blocked her way.
‘It is an even greater shame, given the depth of my . . . regard for you. Margaret was precipitous but not wrong. Constantina, I would have—should have—spoken to you long before now.’
He paused. She had stepped forward and he had not moved aside but stood deliberately in her path. ‘Constantina, might I hope?’ he breathed.
Her head was down and for a moment, Edward thought that he’d completely misunderstood but when she lifted her face tears lay on her lashes, which she did not brush away.
‘Edward,’ her voice was soft, tender, a voice that she keep within, ‘Do not toy with me. If Margaret has forced your hand, if you seek to protect my feelings . . . ’ she was unused to pleading.
‘Then you do have feelings?’ he was within inches of her now. He could see her breast rising rapidly and the flush on her cheek and he began to grin. And then she stepped in to him, grabbed his collar and pulled him to her lips. The instant’s surprise was overtaken by his response as he slipped one hand behind her neck and the other around her waist, forcing them together so securely that no one who saw could have doubted their feelings at all.
When their lips parted, they held one another, afraid to leave a space between them. ‘Now what do we do?’ laughed Edward quietly.
‘I have no idea,’ she replied, burying her head in the warmth of his chest. ‘But no doubt Margaret does.’
They sat wrapped in his cloak comfortable together, all tension gone. He breathed in her hair again and it was definitely lemons. They had shared the same house for so long that this new intimacy felt entirely familiar. They’d spoken of love, of Margaret and of time travel.
‘And this is why you did not speak earlier?’
‘It is. You understand my dilemma, Constantina? If I stay, I will age very slowly. My love, there will be a time when you have matured and I have not.’ Edward wanted no unsaid things between them. He had too much respect for that.
‘And this would be unacceptable to you?’ she tested him.
‘No. Never! Not to me. To be by your side for my whole life would be a great comfort—a joy—but to others…’
‘They would wonder at the old woman with the young man?’
It was true. He nodded.
She stood before him, strong and fearless. ‘Do you see my white hairs Edward?’ Constantina bent her head down so that he might look.
He ran his hand through that raven black hair. ‘‘I ….no. I cannot…’
‘Perhaps if you had seen me more clearly, you would have noticed.’
Edward was puzzled. He could see no sign… ‘My God! There is not one. Not a line on your fine face. Not a blemish. You look no older than the day you arrived at Burcroft. Constantina…?’
‘My birth place was Mantua in the year of our Lord 1497. My father grew olives, proud of his ancient trees. They were violent times and I was taught that I should hide within the hollowed tree should men come to our estate. I wonder to this day if my father knew of the trees’ power. I would play in the groves, climbing and squeezing in to the narrow hollows where I may. On that day, the dust of the horses clouded the distant road and my father watched as it grew nearer. I don’t know who they were but he was afraid and he kissed me and told me to go and hide and to stay there until he came to fetch me. It was the first time that I had seen fear in his eyes.
I cursed myself for falling asleep. I thought that he had already come to find me and so I crept out of the tree. The olive grove was unchanged but all else was strange—unfamiliar—except for the church. The priest was not our priest but I told him who I was and what had happened. I think I believed that he would send for my father but he locked me in the crypt for six days until the Taxanes arrived. They rescued me from the beatings that were intended to drive the devil from me. I was eight and I had lost everything.’ She allowed Edward to hold her in his arms until she could continue.
‘They took me to the Taxus Oleano where le donne cared for me and reassured me. Because I was so young, they tried to send me home but each time I entered the yew it seemed time did not wish it and so I stayed. It was 1597. The Oleano Enclave is proud of its martial prowess and soon I was trained in the arts of combat. I was pleased to learn. I would take no more beatings.’ Constantina stopped. She hoped that what she said next would not destroy her. ‘They sent me to Burcroft to guard Margaret.’
‘And I rejoice in that. Margaret has never lacked for a woman to love her—a fierce woman to protect her.’
She squirmed in his embrace and disentangled herself from him. ‘No, Edward. I guarded her but I guarded against her also. I was to assess whether her knowledge of time travelling was… a threat.’
He could not disguise his shock. ‘I see. And if she had been?’
Her silence gave him his answer. Then she asked, ‘Edward, you know of the Taxus Morte?’
His response was clear. ‘Tell me now, Constantina. Is my daughter in danger?’ he held her tightly by her arms, ready to do whatever was needed to protect his child.
‘No. No danger. I have kept her safe these many years.’ Over the next few heart-stopping minutes, Constantina told him about the edict. How she had defied the Order and protected Margaret from them, even when they had enacted it upon her. Alcuin Colby had decreed that Margaret was a danger—a threat.
‘I could never harm Margaret, Edward. You must know this, believe this. She is the daughter I could never give life to. Even when word came that I must… I could not. She is precious to me.’
‘She is my child, Constantina. You should have told me. We could have…’
‘Run? No, Edward. You could not. The world is small for the Taxanes. There is no place they do not know—in any time. I defied them. Margaret is safe as long as she speaks nothing of what she knows to anyone. I have pledged my own life on this.’
Edward’s anger and hurt dissipated, ‘Your life is forfeit, should Margaret…slip? You did this knowing her nature?’
‘She is becoming more than a child, Edward. Margaret is a young woman. She has kept your secret well and I trust her.’
‘With your life.’
Constantina smiled at him. ‘Yes. As if she were my child also.’
Edward heard the heartfelt sadness. ‘Ah, then you know what it is to be a traveller? To never have a child of your own blood.’
There was resignation in her smile, ‘Margaret is not of your blood either and yet she is your daughter, dearer than life to you. So is she to me.’
He kissed her slowly, not knowing what he had done to deserve this magnificent woman: fierce and devoted in equal measure.
They resolved that all must be discussed with Margaret herself. Edward had no doubt that she had already identified the problem and had already shaped a solution.
By the time they returned to the house, Margaret was dozing by the fire. It took but one look at Constantina’s face to know that all was well. Margaret made no pretence at hiding her broad grin. ‘At last! I shall be able to call you mother.’
The next few days passed in a whirl as preparations were made for the wedding. Constantina expressly wished for little fuss but Margaret explained carefully that her wishes counted for little in the light of her own enthusiasm for a lavish celebration. In the end, Constantina’s defences crumbled and Margaret had the planning of it.
‘Let her enjoy it, my love. It may be a very fond memory that she has of us both.’ There was a sigh as they mutually acknowledged that they would have to leave.
‘Margaret is a perpetual source of surprise. That which we have spoken of, she has already fathomed for herself.’
‘She is her father’s child, I think.’
‘In every way that matters, yes, she is. I was afraid, Constantina. I thought that she would ask me of her death.’
‘You did not…’
‘No. She would not hear of it, thank God. She asked me whether her life would be one of fulfilment.’
‘I did. I told her of a long and happy marriage and children and grandchildren.’
Constantina held him. ‘It is a comfort.’
‘She is planning for us to depart and we must oblige her before long.’
‘Before she is silver haired whilst her father is preserved in his youth?’
‘And his wife. I think that we must put our plans into action.’
‘We have a little time, I think. Let us enjoy it.’
Days later, walking with her father in the knot garden, Margaret spoke. ‘Once you are gone, father, I shall be sad. Perhaps, if you have. . . time,’ she smiled at the irony, ‘you might visit me from time to time? It would be a great comfort.’
Edward stopped and drew his girl to him. ‘Have no doubt of it, dearest daughter. I shall be with you forever.’
27
Message In A Tomb Stone
Two weeks after a magnificent wedding, Margaret was sitting thoughtfully with her father and new mother by the fire. She was still amused by the secret glances that they gave one another when they thought that she wasn’t looking. Their happiness brought joy to her as she considered what was to come.
Her smile faded and then she became animated. ‘I have been thinking of a way of speaking to you across the years—telling you of events that pass here that might be useful to you in your adventure—or at least be of some comfort to us all. Consider: once you are in the future, this past will be long ago and events will have happened as they will. It may be of great advantage to you, to know how things occur.’ She watched as the truth of this embraced them and the contented smiles faded from their faces. ‘If such messages can be sent forward through time, then they will be gathered together before you read them; you will see them in their entirety. Fascinating, is it not? And so, what is there, Father, that will survive the centuries and ensure my messages to you are received?’
They formed a tableau of musing until Margaret broke the reverie. She had already thought this through and gave them no time to respond. ‘Churches! They are still places of reverence in your age? People are still God-fearing and churches places of tradition and respect?’
‘Yes, Margaret. Fewer attend than here but they are still sacred.’
‘I asked Florence that question and she was unable to be clear with me. I suspect that in her time, churches are not perhaps what we know now. She mentioned that many have been transformed into dwellings!’ Margaret could not help the astonishment in her voice.
Edward began to see where this conversation was going.
‘Ah, then if we wish to use churches for your messages, it would have to be one which we know of here and which I know of . . . there.’
Margaret nodded enthusiastically. It gave her satisfaction that even when her father had gone, she might still speak to him. ‘So, the church might still stand but how would messages be preserved there for us to find? In any building there is the decay of the years. Buildings must be repaired and are changed adapted through the generations. We could not be sure that any place we chose would remain untouched.’
‘There is one place that progress rarely meddles with, Father,’ Maggie was pale and Edward took her meaning,
‘Your grave.’
‘Not quite, Father,’ she gulped, ‘but my mother—first mother . . .’
Edward was very gentle, ‘Esther,’ he lowered his eyes as he almost caught a scent of the rose water that she loved to wear.
‘Yes. She lies in our chapel here and, I think, it will be still so in your own time. Florence told me that she thought this house to be preserved in her own century and cared for well and so we can assume that our chapel remains intact—and mother’s tomb within it.’ Margaret had been very young when her mother had discovered a lump in her breast. All women feared such discoveries and it was many weeks before Edward in a tender moment between them, discovered it too. Their devastation was utter but they resolved plans for their precious daughter and Edward began his research on travelling through the trees so that he might find adequate supplies of opiates to spare his wife her final torment. In many ways, it had been the most intensely loving time of his life.
Esther’s tomb was exquisite. He bought a soft pink marble from a London supplier and at impossible expense, retained a French sculptor to produce an effigy of Esther that did her justice. There was some comfort in seeing his daughter respond to the finished carving with a small gasp as she recognised her mother in repose and he knew that in the years that followed, Margaret had spent much time at the side of her mother’s tomb.
‘It is the perfect place, Father.’
He couldn’t deny that. There was a rightness in it. ‘Very well then. We must consider a way for you to leave important information within, where it will not be disturbed or discovered. We must investigate at once.’
Surely, but with no rush, they began to put all in order for their departure and Margaret’s majority. Edward had long ago ensured that Burcroft Park would transfer to her on his death. It had been a complex business involving the inherited rights of his wife and his inheritance as the apparent heir to the title and property. On both sides, everything became Margaret’s in perpetuity. The she chose to marry, there was a sizeable dowry separate from the main estate. Margaret would always have independent means. Edward had explored church courts, ancient Anglo-Saxon law, Roman law and other codicils which made untangling the knot he’d tied, all but impossible. Should that fail and Margaret somehow fall into the hands of the unscrupulous, then her trump card was the production of a marriage contract [falsified, of course] which would show a very young marriage to an equally young man who Edward knew had fallen in the war, without family and with his protector having died in the same battle. Perfect. This document was to be produced only in dire need. Margaret had a copy and one had been lodged with the Chancery Court in London, at great expense. He had no intention of any of these documents being used.
Buskette excused herself from their walk to the chapel. This was for the father daughter—and mother. She could not help but feel a pang of jealousy but reprimanded herself sharply at her disregard for both Edward’s and Margaret’s love for her.
As they strolled, Edward shared his memories of Esther. Margaret could barely recall the pretty, laughing mother who played with her and tied ribbons in her hair. Edward’s described her sharp intelligence as well. The way in which she had accepted his bizarre nature and her fortitude in facing her final battle. They both remembered the rose water.
The chapel was cool and their footsteps echoed as they made their way to the small apse in the choir where Esther’s body lay. It was a tranquil spot, but bathed in sunlight, in no way morbid, the light from the stained glass playing rainbow colours across the marble. They paused for a moment and Edward touched the marble cheek and smiled.
‘Well, now. Let us see. I think perhaps that we must consider a space at the far side, Margaret.’ The tomb was quite snug against the wall of the church, with only a narrow gap where a person might slide in—a slight body—his daughter. They assessed it. The effigy lay on marble plinth of eight inches or so and at the back, where it would not be seen, it was joined. Here was their opportunity. If that join could be worked into a slot that could be removed and replaced, then they would have their message box.
It was agreed that Edward would complete the work himself so that secrecy might be preserved. It took him more than a week to be happy with the result and it had been difficult work, crammed into the narrow space. He brought Margaret and Constantina to view the results.
‘And here . . . the marble can be removed—carefully my dear! See. I have created a hollow where your notes might be placed. It is a dry space I think. I believe that if you use a high quality parchment and gall ink, then your writing will find me.’ His voice fell away as he watched the young girl move the marble cover. She took a small piece of parchment out of her sleeve and
placed it inside.
‘My first message to you dear Father.’
Edward swallowed. ‘I . . . ’
‘Not now, Father. There will be time for grief but for now, I am beginning my life and the adventure excites me.’
Edward shook off the sadness and hugged her to him. ‘You will have the happiest of lives my Margaret.’
‘Good! I shall write many notes to tell you of my joys. There is just one thing that I have decided to ask for.’
He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Tell me the name of the man I will marry.’
They all laughed and Edward obliged. As they left the church together he sent a thought out to Esther: keep our child’s thoughts safe my dearest.
28
Trunk Call
Florence and Nat heard Margaret’s goodbyes ebb in receding ripples as they felt the transition begin. The vibrations, strong and rapid as their heartbeats, began to synchronise with the throb of the tree’s pulse. It was . . . arousing and it only took a moment for this realisation to reach their eyes as their lips met. As their kiss deepened, they became conscious of the tree, felt its goodness—the nutrients of the earth being sucked up by the roots, swelling the cells of the trunk until they were ready to burst. Their senses heard the parasites scrambling around and a squirrel scurrying in the branches. They seemed to vibrate in harmony with the pulses of the tree itself. They were pulled to one another, the tight space forcing them and the power of the ancient yew insisting. A female yew, ripe and vibrant. Florence and Nat succumbed to the quickening and were lost in their ecstasy. Just before they slipped into a warm, inevitable sleep, Nat thought that he heard the cry of a woman close by. It was disturbing. When they awoke, the space in the trunk was wider. They had travelled.
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 18
