TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Read online

  It might have got even better but Buskette’s cough at the door announced that Mistress Margaret would see them—subito! Buskette turned her head to indicate the laid out clothes and then turned her full glare on Nat. His response was to pull Florence her into him and kiss her long and hard. Then he rose, sauntered to the door, bowed to the Signorina who narrowed her eyes at him, and left to wait outside the chamber, submitting to Buskette’s notion of propriety on his own terms.

  Buskette surprised him, ‘She is safe, Haslet. Your woman will come to no harm in this house.’

  Nat reassessed Buskette. ‘Yes. We are both safe—for now,’ Nat replied, ‘but circumstances change and I prefer to stay close.’ Buskette inclined her head, understanding his meaning; Florence Brock was his to protect. She noticed how the man moved awkwardly, protecting his wounded body.

  The night’s sleep, hot food and sense of security had helped their recovery but when Margaret Cavendish and Buskette had found them the day before, they’d been in dire need. Nathanial Haslet was only just beginning his recovery from his wounds and Florence was at her limit. Neither had eaten or rested properly. They needed sanctuary from their enemy—her husband, Denzil Moorcroft. They were desperate and two more days exposed in the open would have finished them.

  When the young Margaret Cavendish came upon them and stunned them by announcing that she’d been looking for them, their world turned again. The girl promised them safety and answers and so they went with her. What choice did they have? They needed help and shelter—urgently. Some of the fear fell from their shoulders, knowing that they were no longer alone in this dangerous universe of 1644. Margaret had spoken of The Taxanes, a shadowy organisation which they hoped could help them find their way home or at least explain what had happened to them. It seemed that they watched the ancient tree portals. They felt no threat from Margaret but Buskette was another matter. Although she didn’t hide her mistrust of them, it was Margaret who was mistress here and had insisted that the wanderers ride their horses. She walked beside Florence while Buskette kept tight hold of Nat’s reins and offered him only scowls and low growls, her other hand resting on her stiletto.

  Desperate for information, they had hoped for some answers straight away but it was Margaret who began to quiz Florence fiercely about why the Taxanes might be interested in her. Florence had no idea but Margaret couldn’t accept the truth of it and pushed hard. Her questions were exhausting but when Florence countered by asking about Margaret’s father and what she knew about the Taxanes, the girl clammed up, saying only that it was a matter for her father upon his return. Both were frustrated. The bristling Buskette discouraged any further conversation, watching the two vagrants like a hawk.

  There was even a disagreement between Margaret and her companion when the young mistress announced a detour. ‘I promised father that I would look in on Mercy Blackman. She is poorly and it may be that she is in need of a woman’s ministrations.’ Buskette stared hard at both Florence and Nat, daring them to make any comment. She opened her mouth to protest to Margaret but thought better of it, seeing the girl’s face. Buskette inclined her head and they turned.

  They came upon a small holding in the middle of the woodland, neatly kept, where a middle aged man and a strapping lad greeted the party and ushered Margaret into the cottage. ‘Regard them, Master Blackman, if you would. I would pay my respects to your wife,’ ordered Buskette, ducking low into the cottage. Caleb Blackman never moved his gaze from them and the boy nuzzled the horses who were clearly familiar to him. He showed no interest in either human. Nat made a note that the suspicious Buskette had complete trust in Caleb Blackman.

  When Margaret and Buskette emerged, the girl was pale and Constantina Buskette looked pained. ‘Master Blackman,’ the girl had to clear her throat, ‘We have aided your lady wife as we may. She is comfortable I believe. Should you have any need of us, you must send Peter to Burcroft and we will make instant journey here. Please, do not hesitate.’ Her eyes were wide with the shock of being with the dying woman and full of pity for the husband. Florence and Nat missed nothing and learned a great deal about the nature of Margaret Cavendish.

  It had, after all, been a short diversion and for the remainder of the journey, there was silence. They arrived at Burcroft Park at dusk where, after baths and food, they’d been shown to their chambers and left to sleep. Buskette had remained outside their doors.

  2

  Sanctuary

  Revived by a night’s sleep, they followed Buskette into the garden with fresh hope that today’s meeting with Margaret would be productive.

  ‘Don’t lose your temper,’ Florence hissed to Nat. ‘Remember, she’s a teenager.’

  He feigned an injured look.

  ‘We need this place,’ Florence emphasised.

  He knew that.

  Margaret Cavendish sat under a cedar tree, writing in a small notebook, using a carved wooden stick. A pencil, Florence realised. Seeing the surprise, Margaret waggled the implement at her, ‘So much more practical than quill and ink for the garden, do you not think? Father berates me for being covered in ink stains. Says it is not becoming for a lady. Tosh!’ she added, gleefully.

  ‘It is beautifully carved. How do you obtain your graphite?’ Florence was direct, pleased to engage with the girl on neutral ground.

  Margaret grinned with delight at the reference, in no way nonplussed, ‘Graph . . . Oh, you mean the plumbago. Our stockman purchases it for us when he buys new beasts in the North—he swears that their animals are the most hardy. Buskette made the stylus for me—perhaps a little over ornate,’ she said conspiratorially, smiling fondly, ‘but she is very skilled with the knife.’

  Nat raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You are familiar with the implement?’

  Florence nodded, catching the interest in the girl’s voice. She wondered if an interesting answer might prompt a reciprocal titbit.

  Nat admired the ploy. So, it wasn’t this Taxane Order which had given the pencil to Margaret. The father then? Since he’d heard of them, the Taxanes had become Nat’s main hope in understanding what had happened to them, stepping in to ancient oaks and travelling back in time. He looked at young Miss Cavendish and doubted that she’d been inducted into such organisation—yet—but her father…

  Nat considered what he knew: the Taxanes monitored the ancient trees that were known as time portals and they had a network of ‘watchers’ whose life-long duty was to guard individual trees and report back to the Order if any travellers came through. He and Florrie knew of two of these: Betty Hudson, who’d died in mysterious circumstances before she could alert the Taxanes of Florence’s arrival, and Hugh Gilbert who had been tortured by Denzil Moorcroft and died in Florence’s arms, recognising her—somehow—from the small acorn tattoo behind her ear.

  This Cavendish girl had suggested that her father was linked to these Taxanes and that they’d warned him about Florence—perhaps he was one of them. Talk about six impossible things before breakfast. Nat wasn’t sure whether he was glad to know more or if he should be alarmed by it. A cloud crossed his expression. Denzil Moorcroft had also known about the Taxanes and his devilry had almost finished Nat off but Denzil had seemed afraid of them which made Nat think they might be useful to him.

  He tuned back in to the women’s conversation, flapping his arms at his side in a gesture which said, OK. Go on. Don’t even think about the consequences! Tell her all about the future! Neither woman paid him any attention.

  ‘You write of course?’ Margaret was as direct as Florence. It was refreshing.

  ‘Of course. Reading, writing, science, mathematics, biology …’ How long had it been since she could share her interests with anyone other than Nat? She was enjoying revealing her skills to this eager teenager after months of feigning to know no more than a woman should in this damned century.

  ‘Please don’t,’ the girl twisted her hands together, catching the concern on Buskette’s face.

  Florence
was confused. Had she offended?

  ‘Father often reminds me how careful I must be in what I know of the future. He is right in telling me of the dangers of such knowledge. I would rather he was here before we speak of…’

  ‘I understand,’ Florence nodded, sensing the girl’s dilemma.

  Nat couldn’t help the superior look he gave her. They’d talked about this problem before. It was the ‘if you could go back and kill Hitler,’ paradox. The same applied to: ‘if you know what’s going to happen/what’s going to be invented/who’s going to win,’ paradox. There were no answers and so they decided to be as neutral as they could be and not try to influence any particular event or person in the history which they knew. Of course, that wouldn’t accommodate the ‘butterfly effect’—the flap of a butterfly’s wing in the Jurassic era—changing the future through one minute act. Their very presence in this century might already have had immeasurable consequences for the future. They could have no idea what impact their presence or actions in 1644 could have on what was to come. They might never know. In the end, they came to the conclusion that all they had was the day itself. Nat quoted it to her, ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof’.

  There followed an awkward silence thick with unasked questions on both sides until Margaret turned her attention to Nat. ‘You are a soldier.’ She focused on his military boots and then looked up into his face and immediately put up her hand to interrupt him, ‘Tell me nothing that I do not need to know—but warn me if your presence here will bring pursuers to Burcroft Park. We keep quietly. . . with good cause,’ she sighed. ‘Father warned me that the temptations of meeting other time travellers would be vexatious. I did not understand how much so.’ She gave them a thin smile.

  Nat was respectful. ‘I have been a soldier and I was a soldier in Sir Thomas Fairfax’s company. I . . . left when I went back to Montebray Hall—for Florence.’

  ‘A bloody deserter! We should have left him in the forest—or finished them. Ha! Your father will not take kindly . . .’ hissed Buskette.

  ‘Constantina, hear him out,’ but Margaret sounded uncertain.

  The venom in Buskette’s voice shocked Nat and he was now convinced that the woman was more than merely a companion to the young gentlewoman. She saw strategic threats and implications. Nat believed that she would neutralise such threats without compunction. Her imperative was to protect her young charge. If Nat was a deserter—a traitor—then he brought danger to Burcroft with every moment he stayed there. The two warriors exchanged a stare.

  And Nat also saw the worry in Florence’s eyes and felt the fragility of his own body. They needed this sanctuary at Burcroft. ‘I understand that it is Florence you sought and that I am an unexpected addition. And I sense your fears of drawing conflict to Burcroft Park but I promise that there is no danger of pursuit from Thomas Fairfax and his men; he has other fish to fry. Believe me.’ There’d been talk in Fairfax’s camp of the march north to York’s royalist stronghold. Fairfax was a Yorkshireman and he hoped that his arrival might just protect the City of York from obliteration. No, thought Nat. Fairfax wouldn’t give Nat Haslet’s desertion a second thought. He was too busy restructuring the army into an effective fighting force, one that would defeat the King at the Battle of Naseby. After that, history said that Fairfax would become disillusioned with the course of the war and especially the outcry for the execution of the King. And there was also the note that Nat had penned for his general, his parting gift for a soldier he admired. He wondered if his telling Fairfax of the coming regicide would influence the man and persuade him to retire to his beloved county. Margaret didn’t need to know any of that—and certainly not Buskette.

  ‘I see. Yes. We had been told of Florence. She had been described to us but we knew nothing of you, Nat Haslet. Now I find myself in a quandary because you are also a traveller and you are the companion of Florence Brock. This suggests to me that I must also extend the protection of Burcroft to you.’

  ‘Margaretta. . .’ Buskette growled.

  The girl raised her hand in a small gesture, silencing her companion. Let there be no doubt who was mistress here, thought Florence.

  Nat exhaled and risked a question, ‘May I ask where your father is and when he might return?’ Even Florence heard the voice of a man speaking to a young girl. Not very clever, she thought.

  ‘No. You may not,’ Margaret retorted and Florence’s lips twitched.

  ‘I simply meant that if he. . .’ Nat rapidly regrouped.

  ‘Master Haslet, my father protects me by telling me as little as he can of where he goes and who he meets. He will speak for both of us on his return. Until then, my strong suggestion to you is to use your time wisely and recover from your hurts. As sorely as I am tempted to know what the future holds, I am tutored well by my father and we will not speak of it—yet.’ She turned and inclined her head to Buskette. ‘However, I believe that we must know your story and how you found yourselves in such dire need in the forest if we are to reassure ourselves that it is safe to keep you here. You must tell us of what danger accompanies you.’

  Buskette rolled her eyes but said nothing.

  Florence spoke, ‘Thank you Mistress Cavendish. We will tell you and you will hear why Nat Haslet is so important—to me and to all of us.’ She reached for his hand.

  ‘Ha!’ Buskette snorted. ‘We should lock them in their chambers until your father returns,’ she snapped.

  Margaret spoke quietly. ‘Father left me in his stead, Constantina and I am inclined to be more hospitable. Let us hear their tale—as our guests.’

  Buskette said nothing at all but clasped the long dagger which she wore habitually.

  Nat had one more challenge, ‘And what if we should wish to leave, Mistress?’

  Florence glanced at him; the thought had not occurred to her.

  It was Buskette who replied with a smirk, ‘Then go, Haslet. The woods are often fatal for those such as you—and you are still weak I think.’

  It was harsh but she was right and he knew it. They needed the recovery time. Denzil’s treatment of Nat, in his effort to extract information, had been particularly brutal. Florence’s wounds could not be seen. And there was information here that was vital.

  Florence intervened, ‘We are grateful to be guests of Burcroft Park and we have no wish to leave.’

  ‘Only saying . . .’ Nat muttered for her ears only.

  ‘Then it is settled,’ Margaret beamed at them and Buskette growled.

  ‘Then we must tell you of Denzil Moorcroft,’ Florence began. They narrated the story between them having a shared instinct for what they would and would not reveal to this young woman and her companion. Nat described how they’d encountered Hugh Gilbert on the road and how his dying words were of Montebray. How Ezra Holless had taken them on and they’d met Moorcroft. Nat didn’t mention the two men’s instant hatred of one another and Florence didn’t speak of the fact that she knew Montebray as her own family home—Locksley—in the twenty-first century.

  Florence took up the story recounting how Denzil had coerced her into marrying him. She was careful not to describe the extent of his brutality in front of the young girl but Buskette’s expression showed that she comprehended what was not said. Nat told how, upon returning to Montebray with Fairfax’s company, he’d discovered what had happened, planned with Florence for her escape and how he had been captured and tortured by Moorcroft. He didn’t go into detail—he didn’t want to. Finally, Florence explained how she’d returned with Prudence Southey, realising that Nat was a prisoner, and rescued him. ‘I stabbed him with a blacksmith’s nail. I hope that he’s dead.’ There was silence.

  ‘So. You are adulterers. You are a deserter. You are another man’s wife and a murderer,’ Buskette looked from one to the other of them. ‘You come to this house knowing the danger you bring and yet…’ her temper was rising. She spun to face Margaret. ‘Margaretta! Surely you see the threat here? Your father…’

  Even M
argaret was agitated. ‘Yes. I do see! And yet, Constantina, the Taxanes know of Florence. They asked us to take a care of her—for them,’ she smiled at Nat.

  He knew that Buskette was right. If Moorcroft wasn’t dead or if Holless wanted to hunt them down… ‘If you want us to leave…’ he offered.

  ‘Ha!’ Buskette practically screamed and stormed off perfectly aware of what Margaret’s decision would be—already was.

  ‘Father would never forgive us—Buskette knows that. She has only my safety at heart. Please do not be angered by her.’

  ‘We’re not,’ Florence smiled. ‘We understand. She senses danger but truthfully, we need shelter. We need to recover a little. More than that, we need answers about how and why we have travelled to this… time. Perhaps once your father has spoken to us, we can be on our way and he can share what he knows. Until then, we mean you no harm and we have no wish to place you in danger.’

  Margaret suddenly sounded far older than her years. ‘I have been in danger all of my life, Florence. The trick is to plan for it.’

  Not for the first time, Florence admired the wisdom of this young woman.

  Buskette swept back towards them. ‘There is another matter,’ she reminded Margaret.

  ‘Ah. Yes. A delicate matter which Buskette insists that I raise,’ she blushed. ‘I must insist on virtuous behaviour whilst you are with us. You will understand that we are known as a pious household where the proper modesties are observed. Father leads prayers each morning and evening and we attend the church twice on Sundays. I have not asked for further details of your . . . relationship. . . the suggestion of impropriety might concern the servants . . . .’ Margaret choked on her words.