Peter Blackman knew horses better than anyone. He stayed with Margaret at Burcroft, until he was 53 when he died in his sleep in his small room in the loft of the stable; he would sleep nowhere else.
42
Time And Time Again
It had worked perfectly. They had found an oak that was less than five miles from Montebray. It looked to be dying but Nat was assured that it was healthy and ancient in the 1600s and that it was adequately hollowed. There were no tender goodbyes this time. Nat shook their hands—much to the delight of Marissa—and stepped in to the tree. Samuel watched his smart phone count down to the solar eruption particles and Marissa stepped back as the vibrations began that would carry Nat to Florence.
‘Do not fear, my love,’ Samuel said gently, ‘you are safe with me.’
‘It is not my safety for which I fear, dear heart.’
Even as they turned in to the drive of the Enclave, they knew that something was seriously wrong. Three of the avenue of yew trees had fallen and several were at an impossible angle. They raced inside, instinctively towards the Futures Chapter. All hell was breaking loose but at the door itself, a quiet crowd was gathered, staring.
Winifred turned to greet them.‘Thank God! The door. You must see. Quickly!’ They pushed their way through the petrified Taxanes, filled with dread at what they would see. The seamless yew door was cracked open so that all within was visible: a wound revealing the inner flesh.The buildings, the crystals and the Great Yew were in plain sight. Marissa gasped. ‘The Tree! It is…’
From within the Chapter, the members of the order were dazed, drawn to the door and were now staring out at the Enclave members who stared in.
Alcuin Colby eased his way through his shocked friends, reached across the threshold and stepped into the Enclave itself for the first time in seven hundred years. He stretched his arms to Marissa, dishevelled, his eyes wild with terror, ‘It is dying, Marissa. An event…something cataclysmic. The time line is out of kilter.’
Marissa held him and felt him trembling. There was confusion and incomprehension but the evidence of the disruption confronted her. The divide remained between those of the Chapter and the Enclave but now they stood facing one another across the violated divide. She saw her erstwhile friends within, milling about confused, tormented, afraid to leave their sanctum and fearful of what was happening. Even from here, she could feel the wrongness of the waves of powers but they all stilled as they sensed a change in the pulses emanating from the tree. Something was coming through. There was a violence to the sensation which made them freeze waiting and they held their breath as a figure emerged. Chapter members ran to help Nat Haslet who carried Florence Brock in his arms. There was blood.
‘ Help her. Fast! She’s dying!’ he screamed at them and they ran towards him, the medical team from both the Chapter and the Enclave snatching the limp body from his arms and trying to deal with his wounds as well. Frantic, Nat flung them off, urging them to save Florence. Time stopped as they looked on in horror. The medics crouched over her and then sat back, shaking their heads.
‘NO!’ Nat screamed. Wild eyed he scanned the room, found Samuel and saw his pain reflected there. He scooped Florence into his arms, buried his head in her neck and shook. Then, Nat took a deep breath, tensed his muscles and stood.
‘Get to work, Sam. Get the boffins on to it. Find out when the next flare is.’
Samuel Richards took a step towards the distraught young man, ‘Nat, dear boy…she’s…’
‘Dead. Yes—here. But I’m going back. She’s not dead there.’
All hell broke loose again.
Epilogue
The expression on Suzanne Matthias’ face revealed her inner struggle. She knew that her dissertation theme was distinctly passé. The trouble was, an analysis of the symbolism in these portraits had been written about before by so many that she felt that she was padding around in the shadows of giants and it had all been said before. She’d rather lost hope that it would achieve her anything better than a 2:2 and her enthusiasm was distinctly waning. She might have changed the theme but it was too late now with just two weeks before the final submission. This disappointment in herself was what now tinted her dutiful, if reluctant, visits to regional galleries in the distant hope that something previously undiscovered, might suddenly manifest itself to her alone and irradiate her rather dull Fine Arts dissertation.
She’d been told by the junior curator at the National Gallery, that Sawdale House in WestYorkshire actually held several seventeenth century portraits, still held at the house by the National Trust. She’d found photographs in some tatty tour guides and thought that perhaps their marginal importance and hence under-researched background, might provide some grist for her paper. It was, however, with little hope that she’d caught the train at King’s Cross and taken the two-hour trip to alight in Wakefield. She was surprised by the modern redevelopment area around the station and then she reminded herself that it did have The Hepworth and close by, the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. She thought that she might visit both since it was doubtful that she’d ever travel here again.
And now, here she was in this badly lit gallery, attempting to squint through the dark varnished portraits hung randomly on the walls. The shaded room tried to prevent fading of the precious fabrics and the paintings themselves were softly lit but so badly that the deep surface of the varnish was like a mirror in places and she had to manoeuvre in order to see it without glare. Suzanne had tried but failed to convince the gallery manager that she was important enough to step over the red tourist ropes so that she could view the portraits close to and so she’d brought a pair of binoculars in order to see the detail. Not ideal. The only concession she’d managed was to come in an hour before opening time so that she wouldn’t be buffeted by the hoards coming through – although the gallery manager had tweak an eyebrow when she talked about hoards. She had, of course, mentioned her connections and network but it seemed that the National Trust was less impressed by that and more concerned with her status as just one more undergraduate.
The pictures were interesting enough. It was thought that most were ancestors of the family but two of them were unknown sitters by an unknown artist. The first was pretty dull. The varnish so heavy and thick that the features of the worthy man depicted were almost obscured; it was in urgent need of restoration. Suzanne could see little evidence of any symbolism in the picture beyond the obvious status symbols of his rich clothing—and even that tended towards the limitations of puritanism. Dull, she moaned to herself.
The final painting was in an alcove towards the end of the long gallery, barely visible even with the useless binoculars. Here was a young couple and even better, the landscape behind was distinguishable and it certainly wasn’t Sawdale House. Ah, that’s why it’s in an alcove, she thought. They know that it’s not a family portrait. So: a young married couple – that much was deducible by their close stance. The young man stood at the shoulder of his wife, who was seated. He was dressed in modest black with few adornments and he held a substantial scroll in his right hand. His face was intelligent with sharp blue eyes and there was the twitch of a warm smile at the corners of his mouth. He looked at his wife who was far more decoratively dressed in a heavy ivory silk gown adorned with pearls, a dress that was cut quite low. She was very young and pretty, staring straight at the viewer with a touch of defiance but happy in the company of her young husband, Suzanne thought. On her lap, she had an opened book which drew the eye towards the bulge which was too obvious to be a fold of the gown. Surely, the young woman was pregnant? Her husband’s hand rested on her shoulder and they both looked relaxed and content. Suzanne liked the portrait. She couldn’t see the full title of the book but she saw the words ‘The Old…’. It was a thick book – unusual in a text not the Bible. His scroll seemed to hold astronomical drawings of some kind. A learned couple!
Often, of course, these early English portraits were done by foreigners, particularly the Dutch an
d Suzanne thought that she detected that style here. There was a bonus in this portrait in that there was a detectable background. The inevitable landscape, no doubt displaying a perspective of the grandeur of the lands of this young couple. She saw softly rolling hills and the nestling small ornamental lake with its focal point of decorative bridge crossing it, drawing the eye to the an out of proportion view of the house. Interesting but rather predictable. Still there might be mileage… she paused, placing her tablet on the floor and working the focus of the binoculars. The bridge was most unusual. It was wood – but it was a very strange design and one that she thought that she recognised but couldn’t possibly. It looked remarkable like The Iron Bridge by Brunel. It couldn’t be but she wondered if she might be able to trace the setting. Had Brunel ever visited at a later date? Taken his idea for his bridge from an earlier version? Now that was a 2:1 - at least!
She wondered who this couple were, expecting their first child and whether the landscape might give clues. It could be the Cotswolds, she thought. Very pretty wherever it was. Strange that the house seemed to have distinctive rounded turrets. As Suzanne stared, she felt sure that she’d be able to pin it down.
Margaret loved this portrait, insisting that it remain in her chamber. It was the last thing she saw. It was taken at such a happy point in their lives when she had been six months with child, glowing with health and expectation, and they could not have asked for more. She was enjoying the life of her father’s promise with a husband who both adored and respected her. Their marriage was part of the great adventure of her life.
When they’d asked for landscape to be put in, Van Heughtan, with a huffy shrug had condescended to do so. It was the bridge design that she’d insisted be used and her husband had no objection. The artist thought it preposterous and not in keeping with the integrity of the portrait and its classical proportions. He’d been correct, of course, but Margaret didn’t care. She wanted a testament for posterity, one which held the truth for those who knew. A testament to her father. They’d discussed the design often. He would bring back a new suggestion or two on his rare visits to her throughout the course of her life.
Suzanne wrote the passage which earned her the 2:1, sitting in the airy café of the Yorkshire Sculpture Park. She published a small article in Fine Art which didn’t create hoards visiting the Sawdale Gallery but did result in them selling it to an anonymous buyer for several hundred thousand pounds.
TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Page 29
