‘Ah. I am afraid that is not possible Nathanial. The door to the Futures Chapter would not permit you.’ Marissa gave a little smile.
‘But I could?’ Florence had the distinct sense that she was being . . . funnelled towards the Futures Chapter.
‘If you wished.’ Marissa inclined her head as though it was an inconsequential idea. ‘The door is part of the Great Yew. It is likely, that it would grant you entry.’
Florence reached for Nat’s hand, her anchor. ‘Perhaps I might take a look—one day—but not today. My time travelling days are done.’
Marissa accepted the refusal with grace. She drew Samuel aside and they exchanged a few words before her tall form glided away from them with a small acknowledged tip of the head.
‘Why do I get the feeling that we’ve just been checked out?’ growled Nat.
Not you—me, Florence thought.
‘Ahem,’ Samuel cleared his throat, ‘Marissa has things to attend to. You must excuse her. Shall we continue our tour?’
Both Nat and Florence were worried by Marissa’s appearance and her invitation to the Futures Chapter but their mood was quickly lifted by the sheer fascination of the Enclave. The astronomy department impressed Nat. No telescopes were needed here. They explained how they streamed data from NASA, the ESA and the CNSA. Florence became his interpreter. He nudged her. ‘What Edward wouldn’t give for this, eh!’
Samuel surprised him. ‘Actually, Sir Edward Cavendish’s records are valuable to us even now. Solar flares were late to be recorded. The ancients had knowledge of it all, of course. Astronomical data from Mesopotamia and various henges around the world show the interest of our ancestors in the science but written records are sparse so we work on the data and history that we do have. As we gather more information, our understanding improves and our navigation. . .’
‘You can navigate it!’ Nat turned on him. ‘Edward was right!’
Samuel wanted to dampen Nat’s expectations. ‘To an extent. It really depends on what records we have—tree location, solar flare data, ley—lines . . .’
Edward Cavendish had been right all along.
Each night, after the innumerable interrogations (they called it de-briefing discussions) by scientists, linguists and social and military historians, they’d return to the sham of the house above and have dinner in the grim dining room. They were left to themselves to wander the grounds or to sit in the lounge— uncomfortable and unwelcoming as it was—but they were happy in their own company and the Taxanes left them alone.
‘Just let me know if there’s anything at all that you need. You’re really very precious to us. Anything at all, my dears.’
‘Actually . . . ’ Nat laid his arm across Samuel’s shoulder and walked with him. Two nights later, when they wandered up to their spartan rooms, Nat took Florence’s hand. ‘There’s been a bit of a swap around. We’re in here.’ He gave her a sheepish grin and opened an inauspicious door.
She smiled at him, ‘Clever boy!’
They’d asked very little of the Taxanes but sensing that they were actually the current stars of the show, Nat had made a few requests. Winifred had seen to the refurb and it was all to the highest quality; the Taxanes house was a stage-set, not a reflection of their wealth. Florence was impressed for the first time since her chamber at Montebray. A shiver rippled over her as she forced herself to suppress that memory and allowed herself to appreciate the wide new bed with its crisp bedding and thick pillows. She glimpsed shiny tiles and chrome in an en-suite and she smiled as Nat dimmed the lighting. Still no TV but an expensive coffee machine and a small glass fridge with several bottles of Cristal champagne to tempt them. Nat closed the door with his foot and leaned back on it, watching her tug her boots off and fall back on to the bed in a graceful angel flop. He laughed.
Slowly, she sat up and wriggled out of her jeans, kicking them aside. The T-shirt was pulled up over her tousled hair and Nat still watched but stopped laughing—even when she tripped and nearly fell.
‘You know,’ she breathed, ‘I’m really used to having a maid to undress me . . .’
In two strides he was sliding his arms around her bare midriff, pressing her back to his chest. Warm lips found the acorn tattoo behind her ear and she melted back into him as he found the clasp of her bra and after a couple of attempts which made her laugh—him less so—he freed it. She held it to her with her hands until she turned to him, letting it fall to the floor at their feet.
As Florence’s arms reached around his neck, she felt his calloused hands glide downwards and enjoyed the firmness of his ridged muscles as she pushed his shirt up. He paused long enough for her to pull the shirt over his head until their skin stippled where their skin touched. He was hungry for her but she resisted, pushing him far enough away that she could find his belt. They faced one another, nothing dividing them and their eyes burned in the low, soft light.
‘Very high tech. I’m impressed,’ she whispered.
‘I made sure that I got instructions on everything,’ he murmured into her neck.
‘OK . So, come and show me how this shower works,’
Nat gave her a lop-sided grin, hesitated for a moment and then, scooped her into his arms as she guffawed with laughter but not resisting at all.
When they both fell on to the bed, wrapped in bouncing white towels, hair and bodies still shining, they were both breathless.
‘You’re pleased then—with the renovations?’ he grinned happily laying alongside her, staring at the ceiling.
‘I am. You know what this feels like?’ She gasped.
He turned his head in question.
‘Home.’ She buried herself in his arms and this time, he was breathless.
35
Persuasion
It was hard not to keep grinning as they began their next day with another round of Taxane questioning.
‘Perhaps you might focus for a short while Haslet,’ Samuel reprimanded. ‘We will leave you to your own devices soon enough.’
Nat continued to gaze at Florence. ‘Yeah,’ he drawled until Florence’s elbow dug him in the ribs.
‘OK, Sammy boy. Fire away,’ he laughed.
They were interrupted by Winifred at the door. ‘Please. Join us in the Library. Decisions must be made.’ She turned and left without a smile.
Sitting around the solid table with Winifred and Samuel was Marissa, together with a man they didn’t know but who stared at Florence.
‘You have no doubt guessed that we had hoped that you would consider entering the Futures Chapter?’ began Winifred, lips pursed.
‘No way.’ Nat replied for her.
‘Not even tempted,’ Florence lied. ‘My life is with Nat and he’s here. The future can fend for itself.’
‘This is a mistake.’ Marissa was sad rather than angry. ‘We have decided that the choice should be yours but there are reasons why you should enter and make contact with the Yew at the very least.’
‘What reasons?’ Nat shot back.
‘That is… uncertain. Your name is linked with a future catastrophe. Were you to be in physical contact with the tree…’ Marissa addressed Florence who watched carefully.
‘Not good enough. You don’t know. I might be trapped.’ She had a real fear that the bloody tree might take her anywhere—anytime. To Nat’s surprise, she added, ‘Only if Nat’s with me.’
‘I have explained this,’ Marissa sighed. ‘Nat will not be allowed access.’
‘Then no from both of us,’ his voice was steel. What was Florrie thinking!
There was a tense pause until Winifred leaned across the table. ‘Very well. Then, we have an offer to make. Will you consider what is at stake and return to us in three months? You will have time to rediscover the world again and we will have time to try to understand what your significance is Florence—and provide you with better answers.’ She half-turned to Marissa.
‘And if we say no? Something else like the Taxus Morte?’ Nat snarled.
/> ‘We are not monsters, Nathanial Haslet. The Taxus Morte is our final protection against discovery,’ Winifred sighed. ‘We do not abduct people.’
‘No. Only kill them,’ muttered Florence.
If Winifred heard, she didn’t acknowledge it. Turning to the grinning man, she said, ‘This is Ahmed Khan—our settlement specialist.’
Ahmed pushed his spectacles back up his nose and gave them a toothy grin. ‘So pleased to meet you both. We know of you, of course.’ He shook their hands vigorously. ‘That the Great Yew should have forewarned of you… I am honoured.’ He held Florence’s hand until Winifred coughed and he shuffled his papers. ‘I have prepared identities for you—property—accounts. You will want for nothing. Whatever you need, can be facilitated.’
‘As long as we toe the line?’ Nat said.
‘Actually,’ Samuel said, ‘no. If, after three months, you decide that you wish to sever your ties with us, Ahmed will arrange it. Periodically, we will contact you to arrange new identities and locations—so that your lack of ageing draws no attention—but other than that, we will leave you alone to live your lives.’
‘Such as they will be,’ Marissa added. ‘To forgo everything that you have been given the gift of knowing . . . that is profligate. You would regret it.’
‘Perhaps. We have three months to decide.’ Florence would not be bullied.
Nat had noticed that Winifred kept her eyes down.
Ahmed was good company. Once he got over his awe of Florence, he was very accommodating. A former investment banker, he’d been recruited for his discretion and he had a surprisingly good sense of humour. They decided that Nat could keep his name—being so out of his own time—but that Florence would become Brook. Ahmed seemed keen for them to locate to Scotland but Nat and Florence wanted an English city. Florence wanted to be close to a forest—not too close and Nat didn’t mind. This was all a foreign country to him. They settled for Nottingham: not too far from anywhere. The Taxanes were as good as their word. They had accounts which never ran out of money; they had legal identities and they chose a property.
Nat quickly adapted to digital age, marvelling at its advantages: no cheques, no cash and no queuing for ever in banks. Florence, thought that she wouldn’t reveal what she knew about data mining; she kept her passwords very complex. They were given a car—electric. Nat was stunned and Florence was sceptical. ‘It’s so that we can’t get too far too fast,’ she laughed.
They chose Standard Hill for their apartment. It seemed appropriate somehow that they were in the place where Charles I had raised his standard and signalled the beginning of the English Civil War. Their experience there continued to haunt them. On the day when they moved in, Florence arranged the delivery of their groceries online. Nat helped her to carry them in and to unpack them and they fell about laughing when he saw that she’d ordered several dozen rolls. Funny as it was, there was a small part of him that was pleased that they had the stuff stock-piled against any future shortage.
They ate out and ordered in. Little by little, Nat learned what the internet could do and marvelled at his smart phone. He was stunned by the cost of a cup of coffee—and how good it tasted compared to the 1980s. Florence recommended films and they downloaded dozens. Nat particularly enjoyed Pulp Fiction and Forrest Gump.
While they were sitting in one of the ubiquitous coffeeshops, Nat commented on something else. ‘Are all of these women secretaries?’
‘Secretaries?’ She didn’t understand him.
‘Yeah. They’re all really well dressed. They look more like their bosses.’ He looked around him. ‘And they’re all typing on their computers—even the men. They all know how to type.’
Florence was suddenly conscious of a yawning gap between them. ‘Nat,’ she began mildly, ‘can you type?’
He was incredulous. ‘No.’
‘Well, you know what, you need to learn to use a keyboard—like everyone here. It’s the future. Oh, and these women? They’re probably the bosses.’
They walked around the city, having done enough strolling through countryside to last them for a while. Nottingham Castle was on their door step. Florence told Nat how, in the next few years it would be redeveloped; how the archaeology would be revealed and how the honey-comb of caves beneath it would be opened up. He thought that it couldn’t happened too soon. The place was not the Robin Hood adventure that he’d imagined.
They even found them a Civil War re-enactment event to go to but they found themselves giggling at the fairytale cleanliness of it all. The bayonets weren’t sharp and the blood wasn’t stinking. Florence noted how the women were far too confident to be authentic. They went home and discovered crispy duck takeaway.
After three weeks, Florence called Samuel. ‘We’d like to go on a little trip—nowhere that will cause difficulty.’ They didn’t take the electric car—Aldbourne was a long way. Samuel drove them, fascinated by the story Nat told.
‘Yeah. Not proud of stealing some poor bloke’s tools but they kept me alive for a while.’
They walked slowly up the rising path to the church door. The tower stood proud over the village. Nat thought that he recalled the layout of the main street but only the church looked the same. Samuel warned him not to expect the door to be open—most churches had to protect themselves against vandals these days—but it was. There was the usual damp smell of fabrics and hymn books and it was cool and surprisingly bright, the afternoon sun streaming through the gothic windows. Samuel and Florence stood back and let Nat go forward. He surprised them by going to the western aisle of the nave. Three pews back from the front, he paused and squatted down, running his hand down the outer edge of the seat. He looked up and called to them, ‘Come and look.’
N.H 1954-1643 RIP
‘RIP?’ Florence nudged him.
‘I was feeling my mortality.’
They all stared at the ingrained carving, less crudely done than most workmen’s graffiti, almost obscured by 350 years of wear, and Nat breathed, ‘Did this less than a year ago.’
‘Indeed,’ Samuel replied. ‘What does that tell you about your mortality?’
36
Turning A Corner
Florence liked Nottingham. Its medieval street patterns and history helped her to keep the past close but at a safe distance. She thought that there was a certain hopeful romance in the naming of Nottingham’s streets after the Robin Hood legend characters—a great photo opportunity for tourists on their way to the Castle—Friar Lane, Maid Marian Way—names redolent with the promise of adventure and the swashbuckling of Hollywood heroes. Names which evoked the romance of a castle with crenelations and towers and arrow-slit windows for firing down on the enemy hordes. Flags should be flying from the towers and drawbridges should be lowered over black moats.
But the Castle was disappointing. The Victorian pile was a rectangular, ugly building, municipal and uninviting. She watched excited children burst through the gates, past the statue of Robin himself as they looked for the ‘Castle’. Then she watched teachers manage their disappointment by showing them the archaeological remains—a bit of a let down for most. They wanted the legend. They wanted to wear the hat and wield the wooden sword. They wanted battlements.
The apartment that the Taxanes had given them was in that quarter and from it, they had time to adjust to the world. Still, as she raked her hand along the old walls which defined Standard Hill, she was relieved that this was as close to that conflict as they would now get and that there was no warning tingle from brick and stone. Here, the Taxanes had allowed them to link their pasts and present.
As the sun began to set unseen behind the city’s buildings, she stood at the condensation-heavy window, watching for Nat. Crispy duck! They’d fantasied about it for so long that each time they ate it, it was a feast! She stretched like a cat in the decadence of a warm room, electric light and expansive windows which kept the world at bay, her stomach rumbling pleasantly. The street lights flickered on, edging everyth
ing in sulphur-gold and tired shoppers trudged towards the carpark with young city professionals making the climb back to their convenient apartments, arms full of food shopping, computer bags on their shoulders. Some were heading to the bars for a post-work drink. She sighed comfortably.
Florence and Nat had not decided how they would occupy their days. Right now, a job—a career—seemed meaningless. Ahmed had been true to his word and they wanted for nothing. The Taxanes told them to take their time. They had weeks before they had to decide but The Taxanes made no secret of saying how they hoped that they’d eventually chose to work with them. There was no rush. They were still in shock, living in a place where the weirdness of their travelling could never be shared. They began to see why the Enclave was attractive. What did returned time travellers do for a career? Nat summed it up: how could he go back into the armed forces knowing that the Taxanes probably knew the outcome of any conflict that he’d go into? That and the fact that he was from 1987 and therefore thirty years out of date. Florence knew that she could never work as an aborologist again; she wasn’t sure that she wanted to be that close to the bloody trees.
They were out of time and it paralysed them. They went on short car journeys, careful to avoid anywhere where loved ones might be. Just to be sure, they tested the Taxanes’ Taxus Morte by driving towards Locksley. They were over five miles away when the car started flashing warning lights and then simply stopped. A woman drew up behind them and in a steely voice asked if they needed help. She charged the car for them explaining how dangerous the road to Locksley Hall was. Her manicured hands suggested that this was not her day job. As she left them, she said, ‘Do not test The Taxus Morte Florence Brock.’ The Taxanes had passed the test and they turned back. How could Florence risk the life of anyone that she loved?
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 24
