‘This is the door to home, my dear.’
As she turned around, she felt all hope seep away in the moonlit shadow of the great yew tree with its gaping centre.
‘Shit,’ she hissed.
‘Here. Wear these.’ Holless had pulled clothes out of a bag—just a basic shift but enough to look the part.
Florence looked up at the windows of the house.
‘Make a sound, wench, and I’ll use the drug,’ he shrugged.
They watched her as she peeled off the layers. ‘Underwear.’
‘No.’
Denzil sighed dramatically, ‘Must I remind you that such garments will mark you out, Florence? Would you want your strangeness to be noted where we are going?’ he struck her hard across the face. Holless twitched.
‘I will not remove them,’ she said through gritted teeth and a split lip.
Denzil formed a fist as Holless said, ‘There is a light at the window.’
Denzil’s lips curled but their sound had awoken the house and he would make pay for her insolence later. He smiled and wrenching her arm, forced her in to the tree’s hollow. Both he and Holless followed. Florence was conscious of the dry, sour smell of the tall steward as she was pressed into their bodies, she turned her head away as far as she could. The last time, this had been joyful. She’d been with Nat and the time-shift was sensual. Now, as the deep vibration began, she felt sick and closed her eyes. Her thoughts were all of Nat. She imagined his horror when he’d heard her voicemail. He’d search for her and he wouldn’t find her. What then? Samuel. As much as he mistrusted Samuel and the Taxanes, they were his only help now. He’d have their support. They’d know what do to, where to find her. If Denzil was taking her back, the Taxanes would know.
And with that, she found oblivion.
She awoke to find herself no longer in a garden but in the shadow of a very different Nottingham Castle, with crenellations and menace. There was a smell. Waste. Human. Looking up, she saw the stain running from the overhang of a Castle garderobe no more than twenty metres away. She smiled at Denzil’s expression of disgust. He towered over her staring in distaste and dusting himself down. As she turned to lift herself up, she yelped in pain. Denzil didn’t even turn to her as he said, ‘If you gently flex your hands—and I urge care—you will find a wire fastening them. The slightest movement will cause it to slice into your flesh. I do not advise it. It is a method which I have used before.’
She could feel the sting of it already embedded into her flesh and she remembered the scars on Nat’s wrists. She tried to relax her muscles.
‘Good. Once again, obedience. We make progress, wife. Now, hear me well. You will do nothing to attract attention. You will do nothing to suggest that we are anything other than husband and wife returning to their home with their steward. If I have your word on this, I shall remove the wires before irreparable damage is done. But know this, Florence, any deviation from my commands and I will apply it again.’
Florence could do nothing but nod curtly. She was anxious that the wire might sever an artery.
‘Ah, here is the redoubtable Holless with our transport.’
Holless pulled along three unexceptional horses.
It seemed to Florence that she hardly needed to adjust to her surroundings: the wood-smoke in the air and sounds of market traders in the distance; the steady clink of a blacksmith’s shop; the close sound of pigs; the heady stench of humanity. Clearing the last vestiges of the transition from her mind, she settled herself into the seventeenth century—seamlessly and was surprised to find that this too was a homecoming.
As ever, Holless wore his black garb and Denzil was now kitted out in plain attire for travelling but unmistakably those of a gentleman. Her clothes were also plain and the bum-roll was back. She’d been given a long cloak.
‘Cover your face with the hood in sight of others,’ Denzil instructed. ‘I’d prefer you to stay silent and obedient—and not to have to explain the length of your hair. If anyone should ask, you’ve been ill.’
He nodded to Holless and she flinched as he approached her to snap the wires. She extracted the wire from parts of her skin but was grateful to see that it had not penetrated the flesh.
‘Any attempt at escape and I shall refit those restraints no matter what. Remember your place here, wife and play your part well. You are mine—body and soul.’
Once, she’d been terrorised by Denzil Moorcroft’s words; now they gave her courage. Each cruelty that he inflicted, increased her resolve. It was only a matter of time until Nat would find her but for now, her fate was in her own hands.
Holless grabbed her arm and thrust her into the saddle of the smaller of the horses. She sensed his reluctance as he handed her the reins.
‘Don’t worry, I’m not planning to bolt,’ she snarled at him, ‘Yet.’ Holless chose to ignore it.
Everything she saw now was ammunition. Nothing would be wasted. Nat would expect no less.
They left Nottingham, turning south-west towards Montebray—her beloved Locksley. Four days’ ride, she smiled to herself. Good planning time. Of course, the best laid plans…
Denzil rode beside her with Holless behind. He had the unnerving habit of silence in the face of her thirst for answers. She noticed that he adjusted his seat often and knew why. She smirked. ‘Sore?’
He turned on her mid-shift and she wondered if she’d spoken wisely. No point in giving him unnecessary opportunities to beat her.
Denzil worked at changing his expression until he managed contempt. ‘Oh, the wound? A scratch.’
Florence smiled at the obvious lie.
‘Perhaps you’d like to see it a little later?’ He leered at her.
She blushed in her anger and idiocy at having provoked him but this Florence wouldn’t cow down. ‘I might enjoy seeing my handiwork! Pity I wasn’t more accurate.’
Denzil kicked his horse to close-in on her until he could reach her. His fingers bit into her arm and he snarled at her. ‘Do not suppose that I have changed. Do not think that I have anything other than anguish prepared for you. You have done me great harm and I shall have my revenge—my dear.’ He swivelled in the saddle and landed a heavy blow on her face. Florence reeled but managed not to fall.
‘And now, put up the hood and cover your face. I do not need the world to see the bruises of your shame.’
Florence fought the tears until the hood obscured her face in shadow and she did not put her hand to her throbbing eye.
‘You know Denzil, I won’t miss next time,’ she managed.
‘Has it not occurred to you that I have a use for you and beyond that you are expendable? There won’t be a next time.’
Florence swallowed. She thought rapidly. She’d thought that he’d taken her because he was obsessed. Perhaps not. What use could she be to him?
‘Are you exercising that brain, Florence? Wondering what I want of you? Such an innocent. Did your Taxane friends not tell you what you were? Come now. Were there no hints? You must have been curious as to why your name was known to them in this age and in that? Think, my dear.’ He was enjoying this.
Her mind moved beyond the horse she was riding, the pain in her face and the century she was in. Perhaps the Taxanes were not so altruistic after all. She did have…something. She could feel the sensation in the wood. And Samuel said that the sealed door of the Futures Chapter would open to her touch. They’d wanted her to join the Futures Chapter. A cold wave washed over her. Oh God. She could open the Futures Chapter—here. That’s what Denzil Moorcroft wanted her for. She was his key.
‘Ah. I see that you have worked it out, my dear. Have you ever been in there? No? Me neither but you will change that.’
Denzil Moorcroft with access to the future and the past, changing events and the lives of people at his whim. No. She could not let that happen. Florence really hoped that Nat was on his way because she suddenly knew that she would need his help in stopping Denzil. None of this was about her rescue any longe
r but about securing the timeline from him. Florence was a woman on a mission.
41
More Than Life
Still three hundred years away from Nat, Burcroft Park was fighting hard to return to normal but they all still had the scent of death and decay in their nostrils. Sir Edward and Lady Cavendish determinedly marked their daughter’s birthday with a celebration to which the servants were invited. It was to be a mark: the end to the whole episode. They all hoped that it would help to fade the memory of burning bodies.
It had been a fine afternoon with a feast provided by Hephzibah, and Margaret had danced until her feet were sore. The servants left for their beds, merry with strong pear cider and Sir Edward and his daughter sat in the dewy garden watching the bats flit across the darkening sky. They spoke quietly and fondly of their time-travelling friends, speculating what lives they might be leading in their future age. They spoke quietly of space travel, of aeroplanes and their nation at peace with itself. They sighed and fell silent.
‘Did you note how fine Constantina looked at the festivities, father?’ Margaret asked warmly.
He turned his face to her. ‘I did. She dances badly, however. My toes are sore.’ They both laughed. ‘Don’t tell her.’
‘I am please that she is part of our family. I could not think of a better companion for you. And, of course, she travels.’
Edward didn’t know what to say. He and Constantina had had that conversation but it pained him that Margaret was preparing herself for their departure.
Constantina joined them, sensitive to this precious time and not wanting to interrupt them, ‘Edward, my dear, a moment of your time per favore.’
Margaret produced a look of pure innocence and yawned, ‘You will excuse me, father, Constantina? It has been a long day.’ She left the room with a kiss on the cheek for both her father and her new mother.
‘Sleep well,’ her father smiled at her and Constantina caught her hand as she left and squeezed it hard.
‘I believe that Margaret will benefit greatly from the care of you as her mother, my dear. She is all together too sharp for her own good.’
‘And we forgive her Edward because she is also wonderful—even when she is sharp.’ Edward pulled her to him until she sat on his lap.
Their kiss was long and hungry. When their lips parted, Constantina frowned. ‘You make me forget what I must speak to you of. Come. There is someone we must tend to.’ She took his hand and led him towards the stables, the light breeze wafting the scent of lemons from her hair towards him.
As they reached the last stall, Constantina spoke tenderly. ‘Peter, il mio ragazzo. Come child. Sir Edward would speak with you.’
He didn’t emerged but she had not really expected him to. In the same way that one treads carefully around a nervous horse, she and Edward approached steadily, announcing themselves. They rounded the stall divider and Peter was slumped in the far corner, on a pallet laid on the straw. There was evidence of food and drink around him and the lad himself looked feral, Edward realised. His hair was matted and his person and clothes were dirty. Cloud snorted softly at Edward’s presence but the apple was not forthcoming. She stepped carefully around the stall, anxious not to step on the kind interloper who shared her accommodation. She liked this boy but wished for him to be gone so that she might move around without fear of injuring him. She snorted again trying to convey her mild irritation. He was one of their kind. Move him to his own stall, she signalled.
‘Ah,’ Edward looked at his wife, understanding.
‘Si.’
They walked away from Peter’s hearing. ‘Has he left here at all?’
‘No. We come to him with food and drink and… to clean the straw.’
‘This will not do. His mother and father… I made Caleb a promise.’ Edward shook his head.
‘His sadness overwhelms him.’
Edward was thoughtful, ‘The boy will not move and we cannot compound his grief with force—even if we could move him.’
‘Si. He is a large man-child who has lost the solid earth beneath his feet,’ stated Constantina. ‘He takes the comfort from that which he understands. The horse.’
‘And yet…’
‘He cannot stay here. No.’
‘Mmmm.’
They left the stables, both deep in thought.
‘Thank you my dear for bringing this to my attention. We must think on’t. Thank you for everything, Constantina. I have no idea what we…I would do without you.’ He took her hand and brought it to his lips and was rewarded with a deep blush, visible even in the fading light. It delighted him.
When she spoke, it was a softer voice than usual, a voice that she kept for him alone ‘It gives me joy to please you,’ she breathed.
He said nothing but his broad grin made her smile. He kept hold of her hand and pulled her arm into his as they walked back to the house, patting it gently.
Later in the afternoon, Edward returned to the stables with his daughter, dressed for riding. Coming to Cloud’s stall, their conversation was a little louder than it needed to be. ‘A ride will do us both good, father. Blow some of the cobwebs away.’ Edward agreed and proceeded to place a halter on Cloud. Peter didn’t look up, didn’t offer to help.
‘But what is this, Margaret!’ he exclaimed. ‘Cloud? Have you an injury? Are you in pain?’ he began to lead her out of the stall. Peter lifted his head just enough to see.
‘I think you are right, father. There is something amiss.’
‘Ah. I blame myself. It is not good for an animal that loves to run, to be stabled for so long. I have neglected her Margaret. Look at her coat, her eye. She is sad.’
Peter moved to peer around the corner of the stall, focusing on the horse that he loved. ‘Yes. Cloud… sad,’ he said, his voice croaky from lack of use.
‘I imagine she is,’ Edward was very gentle. ‘She has lost those whom she loves and who cared for her.’
Tears flowed freely down Peter’s mired cheeks and he wiped his nose on his well-used sleeve.
Constantina appeared at the stable door. ‘Sir Edward,’ she called, ‘there is a man arrived who insists that he must speak with you—now. Will you come, Husband?’
‘Well, that is a bother. I was looking forward to a ride out and Cloud needs the exercise. I am sure that she will feel better for a good long gallop. Perhaps we must postpone our ride today, daughter.’
‘I… I like to ride Cloud,’ Peter spluttered.
‘Oh, of course! Thank you, Peter,’ Margaret beamed at him. ‘Look how excited Cloud is. You go to speak to your visitor, father and Peter and I will ride out and Cloud will feel better.’
Sir Edward and Lady Cavendish permitted themselves some satisfaction as they strode back into the house.
When Peter returned, with rosy cheeks and a good appetite, some of his grief was lifted and he began the journey away from the despair that he did not understand.
Caring for Peter reminded Edward that there was a more distressing visit which he could no longer put off. He must see where his dear friends Caleb and Mercy Blackman had met their deaths at the hand of Moorcroft’s thugs and the place where they now rested. Constantina had seen to what had been necessary there and had returned with a description of the horrors. He’d been reluctant to go, justifying the delay with his protection of Peter. It seemed now that he had been neglectful of both. He and his wife would go together. This was not for Margaret’s eyes.
It was strange not to be greeted as they came into the clearing. The place echoed with emptiness and loss. They went first to the new patch of earth which held both husband and wife. Margaret had asked for her father to lay forget-me-nots on the grave, although it was not marked as such but was a flattened patch which would quickly be reclaimed by nature. Edward regretted that, since Mercy had held her faith dear, but to mark their resting place would have called for too many questions to be answered and so the grave was deep but level, already beginning to sprout with the life of the for
est floor.
‘Good people,’ Constantina stated.
‘Good people indeed. I shall miss them sorely.’
‘We will remember them in our care of the boy.’
‘Yes, as best we may,’ Edward was speaking to the couple lying beneath him.
The small cottage had not been touched and the remains of that last fatal day were scattered around telling of the struggle in the room. The table and chairs were upturned and pots spilled their contents where they had been shattered. Caleb had not been taken easily. Edward was consumed with rage at the violence done here and then his gaze fell on the small cot that Mercy had taken to, as the cancer progressed. He almost fancied that he could see the imprint of her too-light frame in the bedding. He stepped towards it, stooping to pick up a small item, turning it in his hand. The Victorian bottle of opium was unstoppered and empty. He imagined Caleb slipping it into Mercy’s drink and easing her agony as she slipped away but then he paused. Caleb would not have left it here. He would have hidden it carefully from Mercy’s sharp eye. Neither would Mercy have administered it to herself, having a fear of any potion tainted with witchcraft. This was a fatal dose. Who then, had discarded it so? One sniff of it might have made anyone pause. Who had administered it to Mercy and why? A mercy or a cruelty? He remembered Denzil’s boast to be unacquainted with that quality and he was troubled by the images which ran through his brain. Edward Cavendish would have been equally disturbed if he had seen what had actually occurred in that small room days earlier.
For now, he made his promises over the bodies of Caleb and Mercy Blackman and then they set fire to the buildings, razing the wickedness done here to the ground. They watched the flames reduce all to embers and ash.
‘Shall we walk our horses for a while, Constantina—to clear our minds of the horrors here?’
She nodded and was silent.
The soft breeze began to lift the pall of the smoke from their clothes and they began to scent the forest and allowed the sadness to lift a little.
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 28
