And now, his long-dormant conscience was speaking, or perhaps it was the voice of God taking him to task, but over the past two years, Max had come to realize some harsh truths about himself and the world he’d left behind. It took him a long time to admit to himself that perhaps he was purposely delaying his return to England, not because he didn’t have enough money saved to pay for a passage, but because he’d come to realize that after all this time, there was very little left for him to return to.
He was sure that his unexplained absence made for a great story and put Cranleigh on the map, until another more interesting headline overtook the news agencies. But once the reporters had gone and the camera’s stopped clicking, who actually cared that he was gone? His mother and Stella, of course, and Simon, but no one else. His school friends probably added Max’s disappearance to their party anecdotes, eager to point out that they knew firsthand someone who’d been in the news and increasing their perceived social value. And his supporters and potential sponsors wrote him off as either a victim of a crime or some flake who just decided to shirk his responsibilities and fall off the grid. There was no wife, no children, not even a loving girlfriend. And now, after three years, even his mother — if she were still alive — Stella and Simon would have moved on with their lives.
Max wondered if Neve ever spared him a thought. He’d come to realize that perhaps what he felt for her was a sort of transference. He wanted to be loved, and convinced himself that Hugo had cheated him out of a budding romance, when, in fact, Neve might not have even been interested in him. She’d been vulnerable after the breakup of her last relationship, and Max thought that he could step in and fix her, make her dependent on him and turn that dependence into love. Perhaps Neve saw him for the man he really was: selfish, self-centered, vain, and manipulative. No wonder she fell in love with Hugo. Who wouldn’t be swept off their feet by someone charismatic and selfless, someone willing to lay down his life for a cause, or his family?
Hugo would have died to protect Neve and their daughter, of that Max was sure, and he admired the man for it. However, what he admired even more was Hugo’s cunning. The man was the ultimate survivor. Contrary to the family stories he’d heard all his life, about a hapless ancestor who’d gone and died somewhere without leaving so much as a headstone, Hugo was anything but. Hugo was clever, resourceful, and brave; qualities that Max utterly lacked until finding himself thrust into the churning waters of seventeenth-century politics. He was stronger now, more ruthless, but bravery was still something that eluded him. His number one concern had always been with saving his own skin, and although he was still very much alive, he had very little to show for his efforts.
And now, his employment with Captain Benoit was drawing to a close, and there were decisions to be made; not a pleasant prospect. Max had rather enjoyed living with the Benoits. He adored Vivienne and had grown close to the children, whose enthusiasm and easy trust brought out the best in him. He’d never realized how much he enjoyed the company of children until he met Banjo and the Benoit boys. With children, there was no need to pretend, no need to impress or deceive. They were so pure, so eager to learn and to please that Max found himself responding to their excitement and curiosity. And now, he would be parted from Lucien and Edouard as well. Another loss — another end.
Max pushed away from the parapet and turned his steps toward home, or what would be home for a few more months until the captain sailed away in the spring, taking his sons with him on their first journey. Max had been invited to leave at that time, and he would. He supposed it was time to go home and try to rebuild what was left of his life, but sadly, the prospect of home no longer appealed. Max lay awake at night, trying to picture his return to the future, and his welcome at Everly Manor, but all he saw in his mind’s eye were the shocked faces of people, awkward pauses in conversation, and a barrage of questions he’d have no way of answering. His political career would be dead in the water after such a long absence, and anyone he’d known would have long since forgotten all about him. Max would have to start from scratch at the age of forty, and although some more optimistic souls might see his predicament as a clean slate, all Max saw was a bottomless chasm of his own insignificance.
Chapter 12
Hugo stopped at a crossroads and reined in his horse, taking a moment to decide on a course of action. Going to Salisbury seemed pointless. Both armies had moved out in the first week of December. The Battle of Reading, however, took place only ten days ago, so it made more sense to head in that direction. If Brad were indeed with the Royalist Army, then someone would know something of his whereabouts. Hugo dug his heels into the horse’s flanks and took off for Berkshire.
The day was cold but bright, and the mud on the road was minimal due to the cold temperatures. Hugo estimated that Reading was about fifty miles away, so if he stopped for dinner at midday, he could easily reach the town before nightfall. Traveling on horseback for hours in the middle of December was not advisable, but he had little choice.
By the time Hugo stopped at a nondescript tavern in some tiny hamlet, he was stiff with cold and ravenously hungry. He hadn’t eaten anything but a hunk of day-old bread and a piece of cheese before leaving at dawn, since the new cook hadn’t been up yet and he grabbed whatever he could find. The tavern was tiny, with only a few scarred tables and two attic rooms available to travelers, but the food was surprisingly good and fresh. Hugo ate a bowl of stew, rich with meat, gravy and root vegetables, and then agreed to a slice of meat pie which the publican’s wife was trying to press on him. It was rather good; the crust flaky and buttery, and the meat flavored with onions and spices. Hugo leaned back in his chair by the hearth and allowed himself a few more minutes of warmth, posing as just a traveler taking his ease to listen to the talk around him. The men in the tavern were a poor lot, their clothes threadbare and not nearly warm enough for the weather, but they were in good spirits, drinking to the health of William of Orange, who would save them from the uncertain future they would have had under James II and his Catholic dynasty.
Hugo threw on his cloak, pulled on his gloves, and adjusted his sword before heading out into the cold again. He couldn’t bear to hear another word. In truth, he could understand the feelings of the common man, but as a Catholic, it cut him to the quick to hear of their fears. Not that they weren’t based in fact. Mary Tudor had single-handedly destroyed any faith the people might have in a Catholic monarch. Her fanaticism left deep scars among the people who would sooner welcome a foreign prince rather than risk another monarch who might bring the Inquisition to their doorstep. He couldn’t blame them. What Hugo wanted was a country in which its citizens were free to practice their religion, whatever it happened to be, without discrimination or suspicion, but as things stood now, that wasn’t going to happen for many centuries to come.
Even in the twenty-first century there were still wars of religion, although they were fought on a somewhat different battlefield than in his own time, or the centuries before when the Crusades were seen as the will of God, rather than a senseless slaughter of people who happened to worship differently and live in a way that was unfathomable to Europeans. Of course, it was all a play for power, as most wars were, and a bid to control the Holy Land using the common people’s superstition and hatred to swell the ranks of the army and do the killing and pillaging. William of Orange was not a man who would rape and pillage; he was a well-respected ruler and statesman, one who was well-versed in the politics of the time, and more grounded than the autocratic Louis XIV, whom the ill-fated James hoped to emulate.
The notion of Divine Rule was still strong in France and Spain, but the people of England wanted a ruler who understood its people, not one who craved absolute power and ruled through fear and subjugation. For the first time in the history of Europe, the monarch would have the religion of his people rather than the people being required to have the religion of the monarch. Hugo was well aware, though it hurt him to the core, that very soon a law would
be passed, which would still be in effect in the future, that a British monarch could not be Catholic, nor could marry a Catholic.
What damage the Catholics had done to their image with their burnings and thumbscrews, Hugo mused as he trotted along the road. He had never been a fanatic himself, nor had he known anyone who believed in the eternal fires of Hell which would consume anyone who didn’t share their faith, but unfortunately, to some degree, he was a minority, and that realization turned his stomach. Hugo’s father had been a staunch Catholic, but he was also a consummate politician, a man who understood that there was nothing to be gained by alienating those in power and worked the establishment to his advantage, as he hoped Hugo would do. Joss Everly believed that faith was something between a man and his God, not to be sullied by politics or financial gain. He never had misgivings about pretending to be a Protestant to further his goals, nor did he sit in judgment of those who kept their faith secret in order to protect what was theirs.
Hugo smiled ruefully as he realized how much he’d changed since the days of his involvement with the Monmouth Rebellion. It took Neve to open his eyes, and a visit to the twenty-first century to truly bring home to him the effects of history on the future. He wished he could share his feelings with Brad, but there was no way he could explain to his friend what he’d come to understand without divulging the source of his knowledge, and that he couldn’t do. No matter how much he trusted Bradford Nash, he couldn’t endanger his wife by exposing her for a time-traveler, or breathing any life into suspicions of witchcraft. Brad was a kind, educated man, but like most people of the time, he still held on to superstition and a belief that the Devil and his disciples were among God-fearing folk, tempting, perverting, and spreading like cancer.
Hugo pinched the bridge of his nose, his head suddenly aching unbearably, made worse by the bright sunshine and blinding whiteness of the colorless sky. A pair of sunglasses would come in very handy right about now, Hugo thought as he pulled his hat lower, and a car with a heater and a radio. There were so many things he missed about the future — not being in constant danger being one of them.
Chapter 13
Liza Timmins gazed into the leaping flames of the fire as she stirred a pot of porridge to keep it from burning. The porridge would have to last through today and tomorrow, and serve as both breakfast and dinner for her and Johnny. Liza put down the wooden spoon and climbed to the loft to check on her son. Johnny was two and a half, but he was a sturdy little lad, one who could easily pass for a boy of three. He had a quick mind and a sweet face, dominated by a pair of dark, thickly-lashed eyes. Liza felt the boy’s forehead. Thank God the fever had broken and the child was sleeping peacefully. Liza took off her shawl and spread it atop the thin blanket to make sure that Johnny was warm enough. He’d have to stay abed today to make sure that the illness was well and truly gone.
Liza climbed back down and continued her inspection of the ill and infirm. She pulled aside a curtain which shielded the bed in the alcove of the cottage. Her mother’s breathing was raspy, her thin chest barely rising and falling as she waited to breathe her last. Liza brushed the thin hair away from her mother’s forehead before she adjusted the blanket and closed the curtain. Her mother had been hale and hearty once, but now, at only fifty-two, she was a sack of bones, her sunken eyes a testament to her pain. The village wisewoman said it was a malady of the stomach, which had spread into the other organs. There was no cure, but the wisewoman had charged plenty for potions that helped relieve the pain and brought on hours of blissful sleep. Her mother barely ate these days, but she did take the potions, desperate for anything that would dull the pain and let her rest.
Liza poked her head outside. It was bitter cold out there. What was keeping the girls? Liza’s sisters were in charge of milking their one cow and feeding the chickens and the horse. They’d gone out over an hour ago, but there was no sign of them. If Liza knew Avis, Tess, and Molly, they were up to no good, or at least Avis was. She was sweet on the boy from the neighboring farm, and put her younger sisters to work while she met him by the stile. Little strumpet, Liza thought angrily. It was just a matter of time before those two announced their intention to wed, and Liza would be left with a dying mother, two younger sisters who still needed years of supporting, and a fatherless son. The money she’d taken off Lionel Finch was not stretching as far as she’d hoped, and soon she’d have to think of a way to start supplementing their income. There were jobs to be found in the nearby town of Haslemere, but taking a job as a maid would mean leaving Johnny and her mother to be looked after by the girls, one being too young, another too frivolous, and the third with her head permanently stuck in the clouds as she dreamed of her wedding.
December 16, 1688
Reading, Berkshire
Chapter 14
As Hugo drew closer to Reading, he saw few signs of the recent engagement. William’s forces had moved on, and as far as Hugo knew, William was already in Windsor. James’s troops had dispersed after their sovereign fled, and had submitted to the conqueror when he came upon them during his advance through Thames valley. The town of Reading looked peaceful and sleepy in the December twilight; the windows glowing with candlelight, and smoke from the chimneys curling and dissolving into the darkening sky. In exactly a week, James would flee the country, but as of right now, he was still engaged in negotiations with William, presumably to buy time to plan his escape.
Hugo trotted up Broad Street and looked around. He didn’t want to draw undue attention to himself, so turned into Basingstoke Road instead and dismounted in front of a small establishment called The Globe Inn. He found that when fishing for information, it was best to avoid the more popular haunts and go somewhere nondescript, where the owners were so delighted with unexpected custom that they were especially gracious and forthcoming. The pub was much as he expected, with low ceilings, dark wooden beams dissecting walls of dirty plaster, and a heavily carved wooden bar which took up a good third of the taproom. Only one table was occupied, and by the looks of it, the patron was so deep in his cups that he could barely stand up. Hugo took the table closest to the hearth and stretched out his legs, happy to be out of the saddle after hours of riding. A pleasant warmth from the fire spread through him as he waited for service, so he removed his cloak and gloves and tossed them over an empty chair.
He didn’t have long to wait. A thin, haggard woman made a beeline toward him, her face wreathed in a happy smile at seeing an unexpected customer. “Welcome, sir. Welcome. And what can I get ye this evening?”
“Do you have brandy?” Hugo asked, guessing that they probably didn’t. A place like this served ale and beer, and possibly apple cider, but finer spirits were not their bread and butter. They catered to simple folk, with simple tastes. But, Hugo wanted to make the woman doubt if he’d stay — a move which would make her more eager to please.
“No, sir,” she muttered, her smile faltering. “But we do have ale, small ale, and some excellent cider.”
Hugo waited a moment, giving the impression of debating whether he should remain or not. The woman looked fearfully toward the back before coming to a decision. “The first tankard of ale is on the house, sir.”
“Well, that’s most generous of you, mistress. I’ll have the ale then, and whatever you have on the menu tonight for supper,” Hugo replied, smiling at her graciously. “Roast beef, is it?”
It smelled nothing like roast beef, which dismayed the poor woman even further. “No, sir, ‘tis rabbit stew, but it’s fresh and hot. I made it meself just this afternoon.”
“That sounds delightful,” Hugo nodded to the woman. “And some bread please.” The woman scurried off to get his drink, leaving Hugo to hope that he’d get what he came for. He took a long pull of the ale the publican’s wife pushed toward him before running off to the kitchen. It was cold and sour, but not unpleasant. In France, he’d gotten accustomed to good wine and fine cognac, but old English ale was sometimes just as good.
The stew,
when it came, wasn’t quite as advertised, and Hugo strongly suspected that the rabbit wasn’t so much a rabbit as something else entirely, but he wasn’t there for the food.
“Tell me, mistress, has your family been much affected by the recent battle?” Hugo asked conversationally as he forced himself to swallow some gristle artfully disguised in gelatinous gravy. The battle hadn’t been a bloody one, and the only Royal troops to have participated had been a detachment of Irish Catholics who were loyal to James. Hugo didn’t expect Brad to have even been in Reading, but he needed to speak to someone who’d actually been here and knew what happened firsthand. Perhaps they’d know something of Brad’s whereabouts.
“Oh no, sir, not at all. Why, me husband and son took up arms against the Irish, taking shots from the windows of a house on Broad Street. Scattered like marbles, they did. Even left their dead for us to bury. Now, what kind of decent folk would do that, I ask ye? But these were not decent folk; these were Catholics,” she said with great satisfaction at having come to that conclusion.
“So what became of the dead?” Hugo asked noncommittally as he gave up on the stew and reached for a hunk of bread.
“Buried at St. Giles, they were, those heathens. Should have left them to rot, I say, but it wouldn’t be the Christian thing to do, the vicar said, so they are now buried with our own dead. It’s shameful, it is.” Blotches of anger stained the woman’s cheeks, and she stuck out her meager chest in righteous indignation.
“Shameful, indeed,” Hugo agreed. “Were there many casualties then?”
“Two dozen or thereabouts, I ‘spose. A couple of wounded, too.”
“What happened to the wounded?” Hugo asked as he took another sip of ale.
“The ones as could walk just made themselves scarce, and the ones who were seriously wounded were taken to the vicar.”
The Queen's Gambit (The Wonderland Series: Book 4) Page 7