By the time he returned, Mistress Starkey had boiled the water, prepared some rags, which were far from clean, and heated up porridge that must have sat in the pot for at least a week. Before tending to Brad, however, Hugo rummaged in the trunk at the foot of the narrow bed fitted into an alcove and separated from the main room by a curtain. He found what he was looking for: breeches, shirt, and an old coat. Widow Starkey’s husband wouldn’t be needing these. Hugo poured some hot water into a basin, took the rags and the clothes, and made his way up the stairs.
A small fire burned in a brazier. It did little to warm the freezing room, but at least it gave some additional light and enough warmth if one stood very close. Hugo dragged Brad as close to the fire as he could and began to clean his face. He’d give him a drink and feed him first, then see to the wound. Hugo didn’t think Brad would be able to eat, but he swallowed the porridge in seconds. “Is there any more?”
“Get more,” Hugo barked at the girl. She took the bowl and left.
The baby appeared to have gone to sleep, so Mistress Starkey left him downstairs where it was warmer. She brought another bowl of porridge, then reluctantly assisted Hugo in removing Brad’s soiled clothes. She refused to touch the wound, however, which was just as well. She seemed to know nothing of healing, or cleanliness. An odor of stale sweat emanated from her person, and the child had recently pissed down the front of her skirt; leaving a smelly stain. It was too cold to bathe, but it didn’t take much to heat some water and freshen up from time to time, Hugo mused as he went about his task. He supposed he’d gotten used to Neve’s standards of cleanliness. He might not have even noticed the girl’s unhygienic state before, just taking it for granted that she was a peasant who didn’t know any better and likely bathed only once a year.
“Do you have any medicinals in the house?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“No.”
“What about wine or ale, or anything alcoholic?” Hugo asked.
“What d’ye think this is, a tavern?” she countered, annoyed.
“You must have something.”
“I ‘ave some mead.” The girl looked furious, but went down to fetch it.
Hugo took a new rag and soaked it in the mead, to the girl’s utter horror. He dabbed the mead over the wound, hoping that the alcohol and honey might do something to disinfect it. The wound itself didn’t appear to be too deep, and would have healed properly had it been attended to in time. Hugo hoped that he wasn’t too late. Brad just lay there shivering; his eyes glazed as he stared at the flames.
“Do you have a wagon?” he asked the girl. She stepped from foot to foot, glaring at the floor defiantly.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Get your baby. We are going to town. You’re going to help me bring my friend to Reading, then return here in your wagon. While in Reading, I will buy you some food and firewood. It won’t last you the winter, but it will help, and I will talk to Vicar Creswell about getting you some assistance.”
“I don’t want no charity,” the girl mumbled, but Hugo could see that she was pleased by his offer.
“It’s not charity; it’s payment. And the vicar has a responsibility to you as a member of his parish. If you need help, there’s no shame in asking. Now, do we have an agreement?”
“Well, since ye put it that way,” the girl said and went to get her child.
Hugo hitched a malnourished horse to the wagon, spread the bed with some clean straw, which the girl could little spare judging by the state of the livestock, and brought the wagon as close to the door as possible. Brad couldn’t walk, so he had to carry him down and lay him in the wagon. Hugo briefly considered using the filthy blanket to cover him, but changed his mind. He took off his own cloak and tucked it in around Brad to keep him warm, then mounted his horse. Widow Starkey laid the sleeping baby next to Brad and used a piece of the cloak to cover the child before taking up the reins and turning toward town.
Brad was silent, but awake, his eyes taking in the colorless sky and swirling fog. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with clean air. Hugo kept a close eye on him until the motion of the wagon lulled Brad to sleep, his chest rising and falling, a slight smile on his face.
Chapter 16
Hugo considered taking a room at an inn, but bringing a wounded man who’d fought for King James II into a town whose citizens had asked William for help and fought on the side of the Dutch, was not safe, so he directed Widow Starkey straight to St. Giles. He would ask Vicar Creswell for help. As they got closer to Reading, the girl seemed to lose some of her defiance and huddled deeper into her shawl, her face set in lines of resignation. Hugo could see that she was waging some internal battle, and left her to it; it was of no concern to him.
“Please, don’t tell the ‘im,” she implored Hugo as they finally stopped in front of the vicar’s house. “I did what I could. I know I should ‘ave done more,” she added, her face turned up to Hugo in supplication, “and I will carry the deaths of those men with me till the day I die.”
Hugo doubted that Widow Starkey would think of those men past next week, but there was no point in saying anything to the vicar. He was angry with the girl, but it was plain to see that she was barely surviving, and the money she was offered for taking in the men was too good of an opportunity to refuse. There wasn’t much she could have done for them on her own, but she should have at least fed them and tried to keep them warm. Hugo was sure that the vicar wasn’t aware of the extent of the girl’s situation, never having been to her farm, and she had too much pride to beg for help.
“I won’t say anything,” he finally replied. “You have my word.” The girl breathed out a sigh of relief, her expression of remorse instantly replaced with a haughty look of defiance. Under different circumstances, Hugo might have admired her spirit, but at the moment, he was still annoyed. He went to fetch the vicar, who was at home for his midday meal.
“Vicar Creswell, this is the man I’ve come to find,” Hugo explained as he led the man to the wagon. “He’s still alive, but his wound has festered, and he needs help. The other two men are dead. Widow Starkey did what she could, but their injuries got the better of them. I’ve removed the bodies from the farmhouse and left them in the shed until someone can come out to the farm to collect them and bring them to St. Giles for burial.”
“Of course,” the vicar replied, suddenly flustered. “I should have gone to the farm myself to check on them and offer any succor I could, but I must admit that I was remiss in my duties. I will send Mistress Lacey to fetch the physician for your friend. In the meantime, let’s get him settled in the spare room.”
Between them, they were able to carry Brad to the room where Hugo had spent the night. It seemed like an awfully long time ago although it had only been last night. The vicar began to lay the fire, while Hugo pulled off Brad’s boots and soiled coat and settled him under the covers.
“Vicar, Widow Starkey doesn’t have enough firewood, hay, or provisions to last her two weeks, much less until the spring. Both her and her child will die unless the parish comes to her aid. I will purchase some necessities before she returns to her farm, but unless someone sees fit to help her, she will not survive.”
“I hadn’t realized it was as bad as that,” the vicar replied. “She’s a proud lass, and something of an outsider in this community. Doesn’t have any family or friends. Came here after marrying Harry, but he was recently taken from her. She doesn’t like to accept charity, but I will see to it that she is looked after.”
“Thank you. I will return shortly,” Hugo replied as he went to rejoin the girl who was waiting in the parlor and warming herself by the fire. Her baby was awake now, gazing at his surroundings with wonder; his eyes round with curiosity.
“Come, let’s get you what I promised.”
Hugo couldn’t help noticing the relief in Widow Starkey’s eyes. She likely thought that he would renege on his promise once he brought Brad to town. He hadn’t realized how tense she’d been until
a bright smile split her tired face.
“Thank ye,” she said as she hoisted the child higher on her hip. “Ye’re a real gent.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Had it been market day, Hugo would have been able to stretch his coin further, but he had to buy whatever he could, and spent nearly all his money by the time the girl’s wagon was loaded and she was ready to return home. Hugo handed her into the wagon and passed her the child, who was now snugly wrapped in a new woolen blanket instead of the threadbare one he’d had earlier.
“Thank ye, sir,” Widow Starkey said again as she took the baby from Hugo. “I mean that.”
“Best of luck to you, Mistress Starkey.”
“’Tis Judith,” she said shyly, gazing at Hugo in a way that suggested that all he had to do was ask, and she’d be his for the taking. A woman in her position needed a man to take care of her, and he’d proved himself worthy in her eyes. Hugo just tipped his hat to her, eager to see her on her way. The girl read his rejection in the gesture and took off, her back ramrod straight as she stared ahead.
Hugo turned, and went back to the vicar’s house to face whatever bad news he had to, for surely nothing the doctor said would be too optimistic. The local physician had already arrived and was examining Brad. He was a modestly dressed middle-aged man, his russet-brown wig shorter and less voluminous than was fashionable, but at least it didn’t get in his way as he examined the patient. The physician had a pinched look as if he were suffering from a headache. Perhaps he was, or perhaps he found the smell emanating from Brad to be offensive. Now that Brad was inside a small room, the reek of a man who hadn’t washed for weeks and had been lying for several days in his own waste was so thick that it made the poor man’s eyes water. Hugo noticed the doctor discreetly taking a whiff of the pomander he wore about his neck to counter the effects of sweat, pus, and dried urine.
Brad was lying on the bed with his eyes closed, but Hugo was sure he was awake. His breathing was shallow, and a telltale flush spread across his cheeks and neck, a sure sign that he was fevered. The doctor had removed the breeches Hugo had appropriated from Widow Starkey and was staring at the wound with the aid of a magnifying glass.
“Master Clarke, this is Richard Tully, a friend of the patient,” Vicar Creswell announced, forcing the physician to look away from Brad’s leg to acknowledge Hugo’s presence. Doctor Clarke straightened up and faced Hugo across the bed, the magnifying glass still in his hand.
“What say you, Master Clarke?” Hugo asked, bracing himself for the worst.
“It appears that Master Nash has been wounded by a sword, rather than shot, which, in fact, is actually good news as there’s no bullet to extract. However, since he didn’t receive proper treatment immediately, the wound has festered. Your friend is fevered, and likely has been for several days, and quite delirious. He also shows signs of malnutrition,” the doctor said, his expression one of puzzlement. Despite the borrowed clothes, Bradford Nash was clearly no peasant, and would have been adequately fed as a supporter of the king. The fact that he appeared to be half-starved pointed directly to Widow Starkey, something Vicar Creswell deduced right away, judging by the look of horror in his eyes. The vicar opened his mouth to say something, but Hugo cut across him in an effort to redirect blame from the poor girl. He had a strange desire to protect her, one he couldn’t explain given Brad’s condition.
“Will he live?” Hugo asked, his voice rising with hope.
The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose and stared at his toes before finally raising his eyes to meet Hugo’s. “Master Tully, the only way to ensure that your friend lives is to amputate his leg at mid-thigh to stop the putrefaction from spreading.”
“No,” Hugo exclaimed before the doctor even finished. “There must be another way.”
“Master Tully, I am not insensitive to the feelings of my patients. A man with one leg is an invalid, a cripple. He will never be able to lead a full life, and the emotional toll of losing a leg can sometimes be even greater than the physical one,” Doctor Clarke replied, his eyes full of compassion, “but that’s the only way to save a person’s life when the contamination has spread.”
“Is there anything else you might attempt before amputation?” Hugo asked stubbornly.
“The only other course of treatment would be to apply compresses, which might draw out the infection. However, if sepsis sets in, your friend will die very quickly, and even amputating the leg at that point will do little good. I will give him willow bark tea for the fever and apply honey and garlic poultices. Unfortunately, that’s all I have to work with. If your friend is strong, he will fight off the infection, and if not….” The doctor shrugged his shoulders, allowing Hugo to draw his own conclusions.
“Do what you must, Master Clarke, but try to save his leg.”
The physician nodded in acknowledgment as he turned back to Brad, who seemed oblivious to the conversation that just took place. He’d fallen asleep, which was probably for the best under the circumstances.
“Master Tully, come and have a cup of hot broth. You look done in,” the vicar said as he took Hugo by the arm and led him from the sickroom.
“I am, rather,” Hugo agreed as he allowed himself to be deposited before the fire and relieved of his hat and sword. A cup of hot broth actually sounded very good at the moment, especially if it came with some bread. He was hungry, tired, and heartsick.
Of course, saving Brad’s life was a priority, but Brad wouldn’t be the same man if he lost his leg. He’d always been fairly bursting with vigor and good health, but having a stump for a leg would curtail all of Brad’s activities. He would be relegated to sitting by the fire with a rug over his legs as he was waited on hand and foot. Mounting a horse would become an impossibility, and walking, even for short distances, would be painful and awkward. Brad would do anything to survive for Beth and the children, but he would never fully recover his independence. His helplessness would gnaw on him day and night, eating away at his confidence and spirit until the man left behind was a mere shadow of the man he had been.
Chapter 17
Hugo woke up with a start as the first light of dawn began to seep through the mullioned windows. He felt stiff from lying on a pallet on the floor all night, and his head ached from lack of sleep. It had been a restless night with Hugo tending to Brad, who alternated between fitful sleep and delirium. Doctor Clarke had instructed Hugo to change the bandage and apply a fresh poultice once the bandage became saturated, so Hugo checked on the wound approximately every two hours. When he peeled away the soiled bandages, he nearly gagged from the smell. Blood, pus, honey, and minced garlic were to the senses what a tidal wave was to a dinghy. Hugo would have opened the window to air the room out, but Doctor Clarke gave strict instructions, telling Hugo not to allow any bad humors into the sickroom. Hugo didn’t believe in ill humors, having been to the twenty-first century, but he was afraid that the frigid air from the window would chill Brad to the bone, especially since his shirt was soaked with sweat brought on by doses of willow bark tea.
Brad had slept more peacefully for the last few hours, his delirium replaced by the deep slumber of a man who was hopefully recovering. He was still flushed, but his eyes were clearer, and he seemed lucid as he gazed at Hugo from the bed. “Hugo, is that really you?” he asked.
“Yes, it is me, and I’m getting too old to be sleeping on the floor,” Hugo replied crankily as he sat up and rubbed his lower back.
“I don’t understand. What are you doing here? And where is here, exactly?” Brad asked as he looked around the small, unfamiliar room.
“We’re in Reading. Beth asked me to look for you after you failed to return.”
“You came from France to look for me?” Brad asked, clearly confused.
“No, Brad. Neve and I returned to England just over a week ago. I wrote to you, but it seems that you never received my letter.”
“No.” Brad seemed muddled as he thought this bit of news over.
Now was not the time to explain the timing of their return or the implications of King James’s actions, so Hugo tried to change the subject.
“What happened, Brad?” Hugo asked gently.
Brad appeared momentarily confused by the question, his eyes glazing over with pain and fatigue as he tried to move his leg. He closed his eyes, the silence stretching between them as he seemed to fall back asleep. Sleep was the best medicine for Brad at the moment, so Hugo let him be and busied himself with poking some life back into the fire. The room had grown considerably colder during the night, but the frigid draft also dispelled some of the stagnant odor. Hugo had slept in his clothes, but that couldn’t be helped since it wasn’t warm enough to undress, and he needed to be up every few hours anyway. He brushed the creases out of his shirt, ran a hand through his hair, and splashed a bit of cold water over his face before shrugging on his coat and pulling on his boots.
“I’ve been wounded,” Brad suddenly said, as if no time had passed by since Hugo’s question. “Hugo, please take me home. If I’m to die, I’d like to do it there. And I long to see Beth and the children one last time.”
“You are not fit to travel, nor will you die. Not if I can help it. I’m here to nurse you back to health.”
Brad leaned back on the pillows exhausted by the exchange. “All right, then,” was all he said before dropping off into sleep again.
Hugo let himself out of the room and went in search of Mistress Lacey. She was already in the kitchen, kneading dough and heating up yesterday’s porridge.
“Good morning to you, Master Tully,” she said without pausing in her work. “May I offer you some breakfast?”
“Thank you, Mistress Lacey,” Hugo replied as he took a seat at the table. “Would you be so kind as to heat some water for me while I eat?”
The Queen's Gambit (The Wonderland Series: Book 4) Page 9