TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Read online

  TAXUS BACCATA

  BOOK TWO OF THE TAXANE CHRONICLES

  JAYNE HACKETT

  Taxus Baccata is dedicated to family and dear friends who continue to encourage me.

  I am grateful to all of those who bought it, read it and left reviews for it. It is miraculous that the images and ideas you write about can materialise in the minds of others.

  We’re all time-travellers.

  Thank you. You know who you are.

  Jayne Hackett

  Contents

  Introduction

  Prologue

  1. Sufficient Unto The Day

  2. Sanctuary

  3. Temptation

  4. Return Of The Native

  5. Small Mercies

  6. Home Is Where The Heart Is

  7. An End to Pain

  8. A Viper In Paradise

  9. Teenagers!

  10. Bolt Hole

  11. Suffer The Children

  12. Mind Games

  13. The Battle Of Burcroft

  14. Moles

  15. Gunpowder

  16. Home Truths

  17. Dropped Jaws

  18. The Scientific Method

  19. Together

  20. The Solar Dance

  21. Through A Darkened Glass

  22. Tensions

  23. Escape

  24. There Are No Guarantees In Time Travel

  25. New Skin

  26. Ley Lines

  27. Message In A Tomb Stone

  28. Trunk Call

  29. The Tree's The Thing

  30. Magic Is Science Yet Unknown

  31. Taxus Morte

  32. Heart Of Oak

  33. Static Electricity

  34. Milk And Honey

  35. Persuasion

  36. Turning A Corner

  37. A Trip To Jerusalem

  38. A Person of No Importance At All

  39. Hades

  40. Cruel Intentions

  41. More Than Life

  42. Time And Time Again

  Epilogue

  Introduction

  TAXUS BACCATA: latin name for the English yew.

  Except for the fleshy part of the yew’s red berry, every part of the yew is highly toxic. It is thought that this is why they were planted in church yards—to keep out grazing animals—but many yews took root before the churches were built; it is thought that some pre-date Stonehenge. It is hard to age yew since they coppice themselves and hollow out so that tree rings are difficult to find.

  Yew wood has been used for the English long-bow throughout history even though some bowmen feared the poisonous nature of the wood. No goblets were ever made from yew wood.

  In 1992 Paclitaxel was discovered as a treatment for cancer. The drug comes from the bark of the Pacific yew tree.

  From Shadow of the Savernake, Book One of the Taxane Chronicles

  Florence Brock and Nat Haslet are from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. They are time travellers who separately stepped into the hollow of ancient trees and found themselves transported to the English Civil War.

  Talented, educated and capable, they each discover that their modern skills count for little in an age where status, wealth and gender define your role in society—and your safety. The shock of this realisation makes them determined to find a way home to a world which they understand.

  They discover that there is an organisation which knows about the ancient trees—The Taxane Enclave—and they decide to seek them out and beg for their help to return. Little do they know that the Taxanes are also searching for them, having been forewarned that Florence is significant in the timeline.

  Encountering Florence’s ancestral home, they find work in the household of Denzil Moorcroft and Florence begins to wonder if she can make a life for herself in this foreign time but Nat is deeply suspicious of Moorcroft and with good reason. Moorcroft knows what they are. He forces Florence into marriage and she can only protect Nat by denying her love for him.

  Nat returns to soldiering with Fairfax’s army leaving Florence to discover that Denzil is a monster and her life is hell. When Nat and Florence next encounter one another, their harsh parting is forgotten and escape from Moorcroft’s clutches is the only thing that matters.

  It it not an easy thing. There is violence and blood. When they finally escape they are without hope until a young gentle woman and her companion find them, addressing them by name and announcing that she has been searching for them. She tells them that The Taxanes will be pleased.

  They have no choice but to go with her and hope that they will find sanctuary with Mistress Margaret Cavendish and some answers at last.

  Prologue

  October 1330

  Nottingham Castle, Mortimer’s Hole

  If it had not been her lady’s specific wish — a royal command — that she be here with these violent men . . . She shook her head in disbelief, sorely afraid and dismayed at so unwomanly a task falling to her, and not for the first time, Marissa sighed. There was no help for it; the Queen had entrusted her alone with this duty, taking her aside, clutching her hands and declaring that there was no one else that she could place her faith in, even in this gaggle of loyalists— perhaps especially here.

  And so The Lady Marissa du Bois found herself disguised in youth’s clothes hoping that her slight frame, would allow her to pass for a young man not yet bearded. If Queen Phillipa needed an honest eye-witness sighting of her young husband, then Marissa would bring her the truth—not the barons and power brokers who proposed themselves as rescuers of her Lord and curried favour with every foul breath. So be it. She sighed even deeper.

  The steep tunnel leading up to the Castle from the Inn was well known and used as a shaft to lift the barrels of beer and wine which the life of the Castle demanded. But the other tunnel, was jealously hidden by smugglers and royal lovers alike. Those who came upon it often did not live to tell of its existence. A large yew tree blocked their way until the lead man slipped between its tangle of roots and disappeared. Marissa now stood ready outside the obscured entrance together with ten men, bristling with weapons and sweating despite the cold.

  The young Queen’s instructions had been specific to Sir William Montague. The ‘boy’ was to carry only a long dagger and must be kept safe at the back of the melee—a court favourite. Marissa shifted from one foot to the other, feeling conspicuous and nervous, her strapped-down breasts making breathing troublesome. There was no time for doubts as the signal was given by Sir William and in they crawled, finding themselves at the beginning of a steep tunnel. Purposefully and silently they climbed up the roughly hewn stone, passing under the outer bailey where King Edward III’s own men were encamped, barred from access to their own liege lord. The stealthy intruders passed undetected beneath, into the sanctum of the inner bailey of Nottingham Castle, where the King was held hostage at his mother’s pleasure. The Queen Mother Isabella and her lover and de facto ruler Roger de Mortimer, knew nothing of this breech of their defences.

  Comically, the intruders cannoned into one another, slipping on the scree floor as they reached the top of the tunnel. They fixed their feet against the sides to prevent sliding backwards. Torches were passed forward when it was clear that progress was blocked by a wooden lid which would not budge and nor could they manoeuvre any further in the confined space. Whispered panic began as they sweated and panted in this confinement. The smoke from the flames didn’t help. A creaking sound heralded the lid being levered up from above—with some difficulty it seemed—and a youth grinned at them, teeth bright in the pale moonlight. ‘Majesty,’ Marissa heard the Constable whisper.
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br />   The face blinked and smiled. ‘Quickly, Montague. The villain tupps her within the bed chamber even now. They will be taken unawares.’ An unseemly giggle escaped his lips and Marissa sensed the men about her cringe at the ignoble circumstances. These same men who had shown no such prudishness at the pitiless murder of his father Edward, the second of that name. It was said that his death was an unspeakable brutality.

  The group clambered out in relief, with the chink of metal as they moved. Montague urged the young king to return to his chambers and to have no part in this act, remaining blameless should it go awry. Edward quickly concurred but his parting words were bitter, ‘Skewer the bastard for me, as he is so fond of doing to my mother, and as he did in the murdering of my father.’

  Ah, thought Marissa. Then it was true—the story of the red hot poker. She shuddered at the horror of the image it conjured.

  They skirted the edges of the yard, empty of people at this black hour. Nottingham Castle was famed for its impenetrable security and those within were confident that they were safe. The few guards were sound asleep. Neither were there men posted outside the chamber—complicit and paid off no doubt by the young king. The door was not even locked. A moment’s pause to gather themselves and they burst in to find Mortimer and Queen Isabella seated opposite one another at the card table.

  The tableau froze, both parties stunned by the scene which met their eyes and then the Constable laughed. It shattered the stillness and the Queen shrieked, grabbing at a cloak, trying to cover her nakedness. Sir Roger shot to his feet, his manhood rapidly shrinking, searching about him for his sword—in vain. The assailants roared at the action, their tension released at not having to engage this formidable swordsman, and partly in embarrassment at finding the Queen Mother dishabilles.

  Marissa felt distressed for the lady who now clutched her fur-lined cloak around her, but she could offer her no female aid in her current disguise. Events were dispatched rapidly: the men made off with Sir Roger in irons—still naked—and the Queen was permitted her ladies to tend her and restrain her hysteria. Marissa slipped away, keen to make her report to her Lady mistress. She found a torch and reluctantly slipped back into the tunnel, thinking that she would clothe herself appropriately before describing the events to the Queen. The Queen Mother’s shaming would give no pleasure to Phillipa, who had been fond of her husband’s mother.

  Marissa was mightily glad to feel the cool breeze of the night against her face as she emerged from the rock. She threw the torch aside and gave herself over to the nausea that had built throughout the night. She stumbled, rescuing herself from a fall by finding the trunk of the yew, whose roots penetrated the secret tunnel itself. Relieved, she leaned into it and was surprised to tumble into an ivy-covered hollow, landing on the springy floor of the tree’s trunk. Laughing at her idiocy, she thought that she would do well to spend a moment composing herself before she faced her lady. It was comfortable and private within the hollow and she breathed in the rich air. The night’s work seemed less shocking as she relaxed with her back to the wood and, feeling the drum of the tree’s pulse thudding to the beat of her own steady heart, she closed her eyes.

  She awoke abruptly, chastising herself for sleeping when her lady was expecting her news so urgently. It was already light and she was undoubtedly in disgrace. Clambering out of the tree was less easy than falling in and she was grateful for her boy’s breeches. The bright sunlight blinded her, so that she jumped when a strange voice spoke slowly and softly.

  ‘Marissa du Bois. I am at your service, my lady. My name is Samuel Richards.’

  She barely understood his strange tones and wondered if he was Welsh—or perhaps Cornish. It was certainly not court french. She did not understand why the thick vegetation had been removed and replaced with a rose garden and stone paths.

  He spoke again, ‘My lady, you are safe and all is well. Do not be a-feared. You are not dead. You are neither in heaven nor hell. I beg you, do not scream, for you are amongst friends.’

  Marissa understood him—just. She wrenched her eyes from his face, confused by what she saw. She was surrounded by exotic flowers in the shadow of a building—a manor house perhaps. It belonged to a powerful lord for the windows were all glass! How had she been brought here?

  The sun was high and under the familiar birdsong, was a strange low humming and an unrecognised odour at which she wrinkled her nose. There were the sounds of people in the distance calling, shouting, talking—although she could not tell what they said—and this man, standing before her, strangely dressed. She replied in her perfect court french, so that there would be no misunderstanding. She must be conveyed immediately to the Queen.

  ‘Fellow. Despite my unlikely garb, I am Lady Marissa du Bois, most trusted servant of her Majesty Queen Phillipa, wife of His Majesty King Edward and mother to the Prince Edward. You will now take me directly to her if you value your life. Know that if you intend me harm, be warned: I am armed.’ She pulled out the long dagger from its sheath and pointed it at him trying to hold it still.

  ‘My lady,’ he smiled with warmth not mockery and fell to his knee before her, ‘I offer you my protection and support in the time to come. I will stand beside you as you engage in the struggle to find your way in these times. This I vow to you Marissa du Bois.’

  And as she watched an aeroplane scratch the blue sky above her, Marissa began her first long day in 1968.

  1

  Sufficient Unto The Day

  1645

  She had a perfect moment, balanced at the point of climbing out of a cleansing sleep and just before her eyes opened to the flood of the day, when life felt sweet. Those few seconds of blissful unknowing shattered and memories drenched her with fear and remembering—a rebirth from innocence to experience. Florence shuddered away the nigh horrors and reached for the distant sounds of domesticity. Then she sighed and recalled where she was, luxuriating in the depth of a real mattress, fresh linen and the feel of her own clean body. She considered burrowing back down into the bedding and stretched out her arms . . . Nat! Her eyes flew open, scanning the room, needing him and finding him gone.

  But she should have known. He was there, near to her, slouching on the window-seat and toying with a bowl of pottage. Lifting his eyes at the movement and seeing her awake, he put it aside and closed the gap between them.

  ‘Finally.’ He kissed her, tasting of sage and oats and he sighed.

  Florence saw the dark circles under his eyes and wondered if the same nightmares had plagued him. Denzil Moorcroft’s brutality would not easily be erased. He’d be glad to have awoken. Was it something like PTSD? She’d read of men and women who’d taken years to recover from such trauma. She thought that she’d recover but she wondered if Nat’s scars would heal as swiftly. The open neck of his over-shirt showed his collar bones too sharply. He was gaunt and pale, loosely dressed in shirt and breeches and with the look of someone who’d slept in those clothes. Florence raised herself to lean on one elbow and frowned at him.

  ‘I’m eating This is my second bowl of the stuff. God knows what’s in it!’ He tried to allay her worries.

  She smiled at him and tasted him again. Despite the separate chambers, once he’d assured himself that she was safely asleep, he’d found the kitchen. It seemed that Buskette had already warned the servants about the new guests and his welcome was civil if wary. No questions were asked and the cook took one look at him and ladled pottage into a bowl. Handing him the spoon herself she ordered, ‘Eat.’ He did. The ladle hovered over him.

  ‘So. What do you think? Safe here?’ Florence knew that Nat would already have drawn some conclusions from his journey to the kitchen. If he felt that there was danger here, they would be gone at the first opportunity. He smiled.

  ‘Surprising. The house is…fortified. It’s subtle but clever. Someone’s designed this place to provide protection.’ That alarmed him. From what? ‘The woman—Buskette—runs a tight ship. Pretty sure that she shadowed me. Inter
esting woman.’

  Florence thought of Buskette, the fierce Italian woman, companion and protector of Mistress Margaret Cavendish of Burcroft Park. The woman had the look of someone who was prepared to kill if necessary. Worrying in itself. Buskette was also willowy and striking. Her olive skin tones contrasted with every other complexion here. She noted Nat’s use of interesting.

  He continued to describe the house and the grounds—what he’d learned—and, still warm and sleepy, she stopped paying attention to the words, no longer hearing what he was saying, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, silencing him as she pulled him down towards her warmth in the bedding. ‘You taste interesting . . .’ She smiled, watching him relax into her and then she shot past him to scoop up the bowl by the window. She spooned the contents into her mouth and Nat Haslet laughed at the look on her face when she tried to swallow. It was very thick.

  Florence struggled not to splatter the pottage out as she was infected by his laughter. ‘Sage? In porridge? The twenty-first century won’t miss this! God!’ she mumbled through the pungent mouthful. She wished she’d not said it. There was just the slightest frisson when she mentioned her true era. Nat’s time was thirty years before her own; they were not from the same century. She was a woman from his future and there was an unspoken question: if they could return, when would they arrive? One of them would still be out of time. The moment faded and she watched his grin as she made her way back to the bed, perfectly aware that the sunlight was shining through the linen shift. He moved on the edge of the mattress to open a space to enfold her between his legs and she stepped into him thinking that there were worse ways to start the day.