TAXUS BACCATA: Book Two of the Taxane Chronicles Read online

  Buskette rescued her. ‘You are not wedded. Worse. You, Signora, are the wife of another. You will abide in your own chambers and you will respect this house. This is understood? We try hard to give the servants no cause for suspicion.’

  ‘We will give you no cause for rebuke,’ Florence replied, affecting the solemnity that seemed required in the moment but Nat saw her crossed fingers behind her back and hope sprung eternal. He thought that the young lady did protest too much about the household’s piety. Time travel and faith were uneasy bed-fellows.

  3

  Temptation

  The interview at an end and rules laid down, Buskette clearly felt that occupation might help them resist temptation. Florence was swept up by Margaret to the library to aid her in the tidying of the place—a regular activity while her father was away. Margaret alone was allowed to touch his books and papers and she valued a literate companion who could help.

  Buskette, gestured for Nat to follow her and when they were out of sight, turned suddenly on him. He wondered where her dislike of him originated. It seemed that she had an extra exhortation for him.

  ‘Hear me, Haslet. Sir Edward has trusted the care of Margaret to me in his absence. Since his lady died, I have honoured that trust. She has been educated according to his . . . beliefs but I am her constant companion, the one who protects her. She is too young to understand how her knowledge may place her in danger; it is knowledge which she should not have. You will not place her in the path of those who might harm her. Your carelessness is at an end here. When the servants show curiosity, you will say that you are guests of the master—acquaintances—robbed upon the road to Burcroft. They will not believe you but Sir Edward cares for them well and rewards them generously. They will keep their tongues still. But they remain creatures of their church and hear the echo of ministers who preach damnation and hellfire for those who succumb to temptation. So, you will keep your distance from the woman Florence and you will behave with perfect modesty at all times.’

  Nat absorbed the tirade. ‘Was it the Taxanes who trained you to kill?’ Nat watched her face carefully and was not disappointed. Her pupils widened before she could hide the reaction. ‘Ah,’ he smiled, enjoying her discomfort. ‘So, signorina Buskette: I will abide by what you ask of me; I will take a care around Margaret; we will wait for Sir Edward to return and we will make sure to give no one offence or alarm. But hear me. Florence and I have been tested since we arrived in this fucking bigoted century. We have been together and we have been separated and we will not be parted again. Not by you, not by anyone. We will be respectful of this place. We will do nothing which will make Mistress Margaret uncomfortable or put her in harm’s way. But we will not deny our love for one another, Buskette. Am I understood?’

  Dinner was amicable but conversation felt awkward; there was so much that was forbidden to discuss. Florence was interested to see that Buskette joined them at the table—more than a servant then. The affection in which she held Margaret was evident but it wasn’t explained by simple duty, more the devotion of a big sister—or even a parent. She was curious about the Italian. She could feel the chill in the air between Nat and Buskette. What had been said between them? Nat was determinedly silent and so she tried to open a conversation, ‘So, the family that we called upon in the forest…?’

  ‘The Blackmans. Yes. They are retainers—and friends of my father and I. They have our confidence.’

  ‘The boy…?’

  ‘Peter…ah. He is a simple soul. He finds joy in the care of the animals—particularly my father’s horse, Cloud,’ she laughed. ‘They are inseparable. Father would give the beast to Peter except that it would raise curiosity. The animal is a fine Arabian and not in keeping with the family’s station. Father asked me to call on them as I returned home. You saw Mercy Blackman?’

  Florence gave a small nod and Nat looked up.

  ‘She has the wasting disease that took my mother from us.’ There was a stoicism which belied her youth. ‘Father is concerned for Mercy and what the family must endure. We do what we can.’

  There was little to say after that. They had all been faced with the implacability of cancer—in any century.

  Margaret left with a reluctant Buskette, giving them some time alone. They sat by the dying fire in the hall, nursing their wine glasses.

  ‘Your wounds are healing,’ she said tenderly touching the place on his thigh where Moorcroft’s dagger had dug deepest.

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. Feels like the blade is still in there sometimes. Probably nicked a nerve. You?’

  ‘I’m not injured,’ she threw a puzzled look at him.

  Nat left it. ‘Good. So, what about Margaret Cavendish? Is she as precocious as she seems?’

  ‘More. The girl’s incredible. It’s not just what she knows—which is remarkable for this age—but the intelligence. She thirsts for knowledge. Her father has told her a great deal but she has no one to share it with. She can’t even work with a tutor—she’d be well beyond anyone. No university for her—being a girl. Can you imagine the frustration?’

  The two women had made an agreement in the library. Once Florence had seen the books and documents, it was foolish to pretend that Margaret was ignorant of the future. Margaret proposed that she would speak of what her father had told her but Florence would speak of nothing beyond that. It was clear that she came from the future and would know all—if not more—than Margaret knew. It placed the burden on Florence’s shoulders and it was hard work not to reveal discoveries and inventions.

  Nat was curious, ‘What’s she like with you?’

  ‘She’s excited about showing me the books and papers in the library. It bursts out of her. She can’t restrain herself. I think that Buskette has every cause to be worried about how Mistress Cavendish might alarm others. There’s one thing though . . . She doesn’t know anything about the twentieth century.’

  ‘Her father hasn’t told her?’

  ‘No. It’s not that. I think he’s told her everything that he knows. I don’t think that he’s from the twentieth. Lots about early engineering, industrial revolution stuff, but when she talks about world issues—politics—she talks about Prussians and the Empire. She speaks of Victoria but not Edward—and she’s obsessed with dinosaurs.’

  ‘Are you sure that she means dinosaurs?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Talks about the great beasts that once walked the Earth. Would love to see one of their fossil remains. As I remember it, wasn’t dinosaur-discovery big in the nineteenth century?’

  Nat shrugged.

  ‘She even dreams of travelling to the south coast of England to see if she could find one of their bones in the chalk cliffs there.’

  Nat was alarmed, ‘She can’t! She’d be changing . . .’

  ‘She knows she can’t. It’s just a dream but, Nat, you can see why Buskette is so worried about what Margaret already knows. Her father may not have done her any favours at all.’

  ‘So what has she asked you?’

  ‘Nothing. I’m being very careful only to talk about the things she mentions. You’ve not idea how hard that is,’ she laughed.

  Nat had more serious concerns, ‘Florrie, have you thought that these people may actually know Moorcroft? It could be that Hugh Gilbert was the link between them?’

  ‘Nat, she’s thirteen. I’m sure that she’s no friend of Moorcroft.’

  ‘You trust her don’t you?’ he asked, surprised and uncertain. ‘Be careful Florence.’ He didn’t need to say that she’d been fooled before. He changed tack. ‘Which side does the house stand for?’

  ‘Hard to tell for sure. Parliament—on the whole—but they’re not fanatical. She’s been quite open about the foolishness of the King. She quotes her father, believing that Charles has ignored the spirit of the law in breaking Parliament as he has. And yet they respect the notion of monarchy—just not this King. Margaret’s hinted that he’ll eventually be brought to book. She even said that perhaps a future Queen would do a mu
ch better job.’

  ‘Do you think that he’s told her that the King will be executed?’

  ‘God! I hope not. Imagine her letting that slip. She’d be convicted as a witch for sure.’

  They paused for a moment, considering what would happen in 1649.

  ‘Regicide!’ Nat breathed. ‘Still a biggy isn’t it?’ They were silent. ‘Has she mentioned that?’

  ‘No.’

  Florence remembered her own history books and drawings she’d seen showing engravings of the beheading of a king. She wondered what would happen to Margaret Cavendish and her family and how—and if—they’d survive to the Restoration. She suspected that Margaret’s father had a plan for that.

  History would take its course and she was not even a wave in the flood of that tide. She wondered if time travellers were really alive in an age other than their own. Their own future did not exist and the past flowed past them regardless. For now, her concerns had to be how she and Nat could establish enough trust here to gain the information to go back through the trees to a time when they could live. They would need all their strength for their own restoration.

  4

  Return Of The Native

  Edward Cavendish’s natural eccentricity, presented a dilemma: it would have called for comment if a gentleman of his standing had been seen returning home on foot without at least a servant or two in tow—a reputation that he’d worked hard to establish and maintain for the past sixteen years. He would not risk courting comment or attracting attention to anything which marked him as unusual. For this reason, among others, he maintained this small farmstead in the forest and this loyal and grateful family who were always there to help him and equip him with the necessary so that he could return home outfitted as a gentleman should be and accompanied by his man He was very fond of the Blackmans—and not just for the service they provided him with.

  He paused at the clearing, assessing the scene and breathing in the green forest air. It was refreshing to return and feel the life-force pulsing through him, renewing him—perhaps the residue of the transition through the tree, he mused. The air was invigorating, clean and unsullied. Even the grey wood smoke escaping in thin wisps out of the cottage chimney, added to the autumn haze, wreathing gently up through the trees. There was a richness to the air, an oxygen, clearing his lungs after the coal-suffocating smog he’d recently been in.

  The wan early morning sunlight was diffused and pale butter-soft through the mist with the moisture burning off the dewy grasses. All was tranquil and he never failed to enjoy arriving at it so precipitously out of the dense forest, a small smile crinkling his leathered face as he contrasted it with the industrial landscape he’d just left. The colour of the air was different here—sharper. Edward was under no illusions about the fallacy of the pastoral scene that met him, for life here was hard and no Elysium, but he did believe that the advancements of the industrial age would not improve the lives of the working people who would exchange the tedium of the fields for the tyranny of the factories. It would be the rise of the industrialist and the middle class that would benefit from the advance of science—people like him. He had a sense of viewing a painting as he stood at the edge of the scene; one that would not be painted until there was a nostalgia about the past. He shook himself from his reverie. Past and future; the lines were blurred. He must remain in the moment.

  Edward called out, moving towards the small cottage, not wanting to cause alarm, and to give some warning of his presence to those within, but he need not have worried. The geese were instantly in a gaggle of frenzy. An excellent alarm system. The lone and rather fine horse in the adjacent corral—his own mare—lifted her nostrils and whinnied with the anticipation of a canter, recognising her master.

  ‘Ho! Caleb! Avast the house!’ He called out amusing himself. He lowered the heavy bag from his shoulder and he stood within stroking distance of the mare’s insistent and probing nose, which rooted out the wizened apple in his hand—as expected.

  Caleb bustled to the door, perpetually surprised and a little unnerved by his Master’s predictably unexpected arrival. He trotted towards Sir Edward, swallowing the final mouthful of his breakfast and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. He bellowed back into the cottage, ‘Peter lad! Come hither son and assist his honour,’ and a lolloping giant of a youth squeezed himself out from under the low lintel and cheerfully ambled over to his father, his wide grin guileless and besmirched with honey.

  ‘I do swear, Peter, thou’rt grown another foot!’ Sir Edward guffawed. ‘Mistress Blackman, what is it that you have you been feeding the boy!’ he asked as the boy’s mother emerged from the house and they all laughed at the boy’s happy blushes.

  This was a familiar routine, needing no explanations or instructions. Whilst the lad began to saddle and bridle the elegant grey, his father was amiably pulled aside and Edward clapped him on the shoulder. His tone changed, close-to.

  ‘Is all well, friend?’ His smile was steady but it didn’t reach his eyes. The war had stirred people so that there’d been vagabonds who’d come upon the cottage in the woods thinking that robbery would resolve their hunger and penury. They’d been wrong. Caleb’s years of soldiering had taught him to install unseen protections against such intruders—with help from his master. It helped that Peter had a strong and simple sense of outrage against those who threatened either his parents or his equally dear animals. The lad was an effective deterrent to half-starved intruders. So it was, that unwelcome guests were quickly dispatched. Few tried to visit again. It wasn’t that the family were uncharitable; they’d known unkindness and hardship. Mistress Blackman was especially quick to spot those who’d fallen on hard times, looking for a place to call home again. These folk were offered simple food and a resting place for the night (although Caleb usually sat watch over them) and in the morning, with a small bag of supplies, they were wished well for their journey, it being clear that this place could not support another mouth. Their weary eyes admitted the truth of it and they trudged away, the better for having received a slice of human kindness.

  But there were others who were set on mischief from the outset. These looked askance at Peter and kept their distance from him. They had an air of entitlement, expecting aid from the family that they’d come upon and Mercy Blackman had a nose for them too. Once they’d been shooed away, the family knew from experience that they would invariably return in the dead of the night for robbery or worse. On those nights, they all kept guard. Peter watched over the stable and Caleb positioned himself overlooking the farmstead itself. Mercy sat in the dark of the house, well-armed with a long carving knife. They all waited. Such vagabonds who dared to try to violate the Blackmans’ peace, soon regretted it and there was a burial pit some distance from the house which bore witness to those who lacked the wit to heed the warnings. Somehow, this small homestead developed a reputation for itself and the locals and highway folk, kept away. The Blackmans did nothing to discourage it.

  Caleb nodded sagely at his master and friend, keeping a light hearted look about him. ‘Aye, Sir, we’ve had no further poor souls looking for easy takings. We did as you said and skirted the area. Peter and I discovered one or two campfires but ’twas not hard to shoo them on a better path than ours. Peter is a great encouragement in that, as you can see!’ But that wasn’t what the trouble was here and his expression and his voice fell.

  ‘Miss Maggie did us the kindness of coming by t’other day as I think you had asked of her. She was accompanied by Mistress Buskette,’ Caleb smiled at the look on Sir Edward’s face. ‘I think, Sir, that no harm will come to your daughter whilst that lady is with her.’

  Edward recovered himself. ‘Say on man.’

  ‘There were two others with them—man and a woman. Looked ragged—although the woman’s clothes were finer…’

  ‘Two strangers?’ Edward mused. ‘In the company of my daughter? You sensed no threat?’

  ‘None, sir—excepting that Mistress Buskette was
more annoyed than usual.’ They both grinned at that.

  That small snippet interested Edward but he was reassured. He trusted Buskette with the life of his daughter. He said nothing and wondered if his dear daughter had another motive for visiting the Blackmans, wandering the forest, searching for the one that Hugh Gilbert had spoken of—and perhaps finding her—but there had been no mention of a man. Two vagrants in need of food perhaps. It would not be the first time his daughter had aided people so. He must go home.

  Caleb continued, ‘Miss Margaret was good enough to say that she’d send a woman to help our Mercy with . . . needful things in the coming days.’ He looked back fondly and smiled at the woman now resting against the door post, lines of pain etched on her face, watching them. He turned back to face Sir Edward his own pain evident and his voice low. ‘I am grateful, Sir, for such kindnesses. I pray that the Lord will be merciful also.’ His voice was hollow with doubt.

  ‘How fares she, man? She looks . . . a little drawn.’ Edward offered tentatively and gently.

  Caleb nodded making sure that his back was away from the door. ‘There is pain sir, which she is loathe to show but I see it and know it. She murmurs in her sleep.’

  Edward had prepared for this, ‘I may have help for that, friend. I have been away in … London, these few days, and you’ll know that they have physicians of rare skill with medicaments of powerful properties.’ The future was good for some things.

  Caleb looked dubious. ‘So you say, sir but my Mercy puts her faith in the Lord and will have no truck with potions—says they’re Satan’s brew and I’m not the man to contradict her—God-fearing woman that she is.’ He forced a fond smile. ‘I mean no offence to your honour.’ His wife’s faith was to be respected but in truth it did not sustain him as she wasted away, her body slowly devoured by the canker. He not find the mercy of a loving God in that.