When Christopher woke he felt queasy, as if the sea still washed within him. At first, he did not know where he was. When he remembered, he discovered that having crawled exhausted into bed, he now found it impossible to rise. It was not that his legs were weak, but his resolve had quite left him. Far from this place being a new beginning, he felt it was the place where his life was about to end. He did not want to be told of the moment when his infant child ceased to breathe. He had already accepted that inevitability. Thinking of the babe made images of his dead wife caper horribly in his head. The yells of the blacksmith’s lusty infant made his loss the harder to bear and the only way he could gain some relief was to force his mind to recall incidences of his earlier life. And so, while the business of the inn carried on much as it had for close on two hundred years, its new owner lay upstairs, fighting to find a reason to live.
Cocooned in his nest, he thought of his long-dead mother. Her face was mostly remembered in a portrait that had hung in the great hall at home, a moated manor, slighted during the war, burnt and now little more than a heap of building stone. Her scent could be conjured, and the particular rustle of her dress. Christopher had a clear memory of sitting, splay-legged, hidden under her skirts, feeling entirely at peace. It must have been long before he was breeched. That important day he could clearly remember. The suit of adult clothes arriving from London, being dressed in them and proudly going to show his father. He remembered wearing the miniature sword, which his father had owned before him, on the occasion of his being dressed for the first time as a man. How he had cried when it became clear the next day that the sword was not his to play with, but only to be worn on special occasions. Injustice had burnt within him for a week, but then the freedom of breeches instead of tangling dresses was so delightful that the sword was soon forgotten, especially as play swords aplenty were to be had in the nearest hedgerow.
He slept a little more, to be woken by the girl, Sally, drawing the curtains. He could not bear the light and so she drew them over again, left meat and drink on his table and went to her other chores.
Urgency made him rise to use the pot. He drank a little but could not eat. Sliding once more into the warmth of his bed, he kept his mind on the past, frightened as he was for his sanity if he allowed the present to intrude. His father had provided him with both sword and pistol at the beginning of the war, before they buried the plate, his mother’s jewels and as much money as they could spare. Plate, jewels and most of the money had been found and taken by others. The remaining cache of coins he had was now mostly spent, and the pistol and sword he had thrown away on that dreadful day when Worcester was lost.
He had long since ceased thinking there was anything honourable about the act of fighting. It was a grunting, sweating, close quarters meeting of men he would prefer to argue with than kill. Had he killed? It was difficult to tell. He had caused wounds, yes, and had a line of puckered skin along one arm as his own evidence of engagement. How many of those wounds he had inflicted had proved fatal? The ball from his pistol that had lodged in that man’s face? He had gone down with a scream and had been trampled over in the narrow street by his own men. Everyone had been afraid of losing their footing on the slick cobbles of Worcester. Christopher remembered that. He remembered having, during the war, a prolonged and heightened state of fear, leavened by ennui while waiting to engage. During the rout, when he fled, along with others, hiding wherever they could, fear consumed him. He had got across the Channel, at last, for the price of a month’s hard graft harvesting turnips, as well as all the money he had. Once safe from the militia, in France, it took him some time to find out where he should go, with rumours of his king being killed, arrested, or in hiding. He had been just one of that ragtag of disheartened, traumatised young men in exile, trying to find their way to their nation.
Christopher turned onto his back and stared at the darkness. He had always tried to view his escape to France as lucky, even though it was a prelude to years of wandering the continent as a pauper. Should he thank God that he still had his head upon his neck or that he hadn’t been pressed into the New Model Army and sent to rot in Ireland? He didn’t pretend to understand the convoluted behaviour of God, striking one down, sparing another, allowing so much suffering of the godly, and innocent children. But that was dangerous ground.
It had been a lucky chance that had brought word to his ears that Charles had landed just down the coast from where he was attempting to keep his body and soul as one. Yes, he could admit that as luck. And so, too, the luck that had made raw the prince’s feet while in disguise, though not so very lucky for the prince. Lucky, though, that Christopher should arrive in time to offer Charles his own shoes, having – yes, by good fortune for them both – similar sized overlarge feet. And lucky that his height made him memorable. Such ridiculous serendipity made Christopher despair at the unevenness of life. But it had made him a junior member of this dishevelled court and, for a while, a friend of the king-in-waiting. It was not true friendship, not the friendship of equals – he had always known that – but Charles had been grateful and said so. Christopher even got his shoes back, once Charles’s mother had ordered her son a new pair made. In fact, Christopher had them still, much patched, or at least he thought he did … if he had stuffed them into his box, which had been brought up and lay untouched under the window.
He turned over again and looked at the dark shape of his box. He should get up, unpack a few necessaries and go down to take mastery of his realm. He willed his body up, but it refused. What was the use? Everything he loved had gone and he, a gentleman, had come now to this, owner of nothing but an ancient, slipshod building at the edge of a nondescript village that would oblige him to be in trade for the rest of his days. How had he got himself into this apology for a life? He could have taken himself to the newly restored court in London, asked for favour as one who had shared the King’s years of wandering. But those thoughts were taking him dangerously close to memories of meeting his wife and what came after. He shied away from that. He should get up, be a man, deflect himself from dismal thoughts. He did rise then and crossed the creaking boards to the window. He looked out onto the high road. Few people were about. It was another dry day, but no sun shone. He put his hand on his box but could not bring himself to unstrap it. He was too weary, too weary to live.
The next time he woke the day had gone and it was evening again. Light seeped up through gaps between the boards on his floor and he gazed at them, these shafts of light from a separate world. No doubt there was a good fire in the huge hearth and candles on the tables, as before. It was quiet though, nothing like the hubbub when he’d arrived. He wondered if the inn made as good a profit as Mr Gazely had assured him. The crowd busy drinking on the night he arrived had certainly given that impression, but tonight it sounded as if William was selling little ale. It had been quiet during the day too. Perhaps Jane had impressed upon each customer the importance of quiet as a form of respect for his circumstances or maybe this day of the week … and which it was he couldn’t recall … was usually quiet. It struck him that his Oxford education would be of little use to him now. How many of these people could read or write their native language, let alone Latin and Greek? There were several volumes of poetry in his box. With whom would he enjoy and discuss these pleasures now?
He looked away from the light in the cracks on the floor, and away from the meat and drink that he had not touched. Although he had slept for many hours he was still exhausted and slept again, yet his dreams as always were full of terror. When he woke once more it was still dark, but a thin sliver of grey light slid from the window where he had not completely closed the curtain. All at once, he felt he could not bear another minute on his back. Before his mind could object, he had lowered his feet to the floor and staggered up on legs that felt foolish with inaction. It was cold. He pulled the curtains wide to let as much dawn or dusk light in as possible. He could see that there was no fuel ready in the hearth. He lit a candle
and stood it on the table to aid the examination of his box. He smelt rancid to himself, but there was no water in the bowl with which to wash. He dragged off his shirt and replaced it with the one he had used to swaddle the baby. Then he wrapped his cloak around himself and took a sip of the beer. In a moment he had drained the tankard. He had not realised he was so thirsty.
To prevent himself from seeking the warmth of his bed yet again, he began to walk to keep warm. It was only a few paces from the table to the door to the hearth, and hence to the window, but it did him good. Sharp grit from the floor bit into the soft places on his feet and made him feel more alive. As soon as he felt able to tackle his box, he knelt in front of it and undid the straps. It was packed full of a miscellany of possessions. The box had not been fully unpacked after the journey from Holland to Norfolk with his wife. The top layer was a jumbled mess of linen, books, a small box with his remaining money inside and his journal. There was also, to his relief, his second suit, much worn but serviceable enough. He took it out, along with some clean linen, and laid everything on the bed. It was getting lighter. Soon, surely, the servants would be up and he would command some hot water be brought and soap if they had it. Then, clean, refreshed and dressed, he would feel better able to make the journey downstairs. He wouldn’t allow himself to think any further than that.
3
It was the child, Sally, who came again, to take away yesterday’s food and ask if he wanted more. For a moment she didn’t notice him where he sat, wrapped in his cloak and coverlet and hunched in his chair. When she did, she stared at him before speaking.
‘Did you want me to lay the fire, sir?’
‘No. I want hot water in that bowl. And soap.’
‘The kitchen fire is not hot enough yet, sir.’
He looked at her. ‘Then, with as much haste as you can muster. I do not wish to wash in cold water.’
‘No, sir.’
The water when it eventually came was steaming. It gave his body pleasure, as did the donning of clean garments. He told himself that all would be well, as the anchorite Julian of Norwich had it, but she had believed in God’s goodness. He no longer trusted in God, or anything else. It seemed he could not even rely on himself. He must go down and confront the day, but the courage he had used to slash at his enemy’s head in battle did not seem to be of any great use against grief. It was not that he thought himself special. Many others had lived these past years with just as great or greater disasters than he had suffered. So why could he not be a man and face his life as it was? He had all his limbs and both his eyes. He had a roof of sorts over his head and servants to do his bidding. He had, he hoped, the means of putting food in his belly by mastering the trick of being the owner of an inn. William and Jane must know what they were about. He could manage servants. He could, he thought, inspire loyalty and so make them want to serve him well. He was not afraid of account books. But he was afraid of his heart. He was afraid that it was dying and, in so doing, taking his will for life away from him and replacing it with a will for self-destruction. In the face of that unholy desire, even a man such as he, with little faith remaining, feared hell.
A sudden shaft of early spring sunlight slanted into the room, making the grey ash in the hearth seem for a moment lit by pale yellow flame. The simple arrival of the sun transformed the room. In the dark it had seemed a place of refuge; now it looked to him tawdry, grimed and a mess. The bed was unmade, the floor was gritty underfoot and the table was strewn with crumbs, dust and a bowl of dirty water. Discarded clothes lay tumbled on the floor. As for the chair, it had held his shaking body as he disgraced himself by weeping into the skirts of a servant. It all shamed him, but if he could just bring himself to leave the room he could, surely, begin to find himself again.
The trick of it was to act, not to think. His legs had got him out of bed, his hands had washed and dressed him. Now his hand would open the door and guide his body along the corridor, down the stairs and into his world as it was today and would be henceforth. It faltered, that hand, but he willed it with all his strength, and he found that he was indeed walking along a corridor lined with dark panelling, pierced halfway along its length on one side by a window and on the other by two doors. He had no memory of walking it before, but once he stepped upon the stairs it was better. He recalled them, with their wayward slant. He trod them slowly, getting their feel beneath his feet and their sound into his head, while his hand slid easily down the bannister worn smooth by countless hands before him. Once down in the stone-flagged passage, he looked about him. To his left was a closed door and to his right one stood open, one he remembered. It led him into the room he had first entered from the road.
The room smelt of stale beer, woodsmoke and unwashed bodies – though none were in evidence. It looked abandoned. Sun was struggling in at the grimy windows and where he was standing all was gloom and shadow. The great door was shut, the tables empty and several mugs stood about, as if their owners had left in a hurry. It struck Christopher that his first view of the inn, when he had met Mr Gazely and been impressed at the jolly nature of the place, had been mistaken. Then he had not noticed the grime. Now it offended him. How could he have thought to bring his wife and babe to such a place? The good oak settles had not been polished for years, perhaps never. How clean and ordered in comparison had been the home in Holland of his wife’s parents. After his years of homeless wandering, their comfortable and attractive home had soothed his heart. He had wanted to provide the same for his young family, but this was not it. No matter. He had no family. If this was what the village men demanded of their inn, then who was he to argue? But he could at least make sure his own quarters were kept sweet, swept and polished, and his linen washed. He left the room and went in search of his servants. Rather than call for them he would surprise them in their quarters. That was the way to discover how things really were.
Next on his right was the small parlour where he and Mr Gazely had conducted their business. When he opened the opposite door, he discovered steps leading down into a cellar. He closed that door and made his way along the passage, towards the kitchen. He stood for a moment in the doorway, taking in the scene. A small fire was burning in the hearth with a pot above it, and at the large table Jane was busy making pastry. Sally was scrubbing turnips in a bowl on the floor. It was a scene of quiet industry and Christopher was almost disappointed. There was nothing here to complain of and, besides, the smell of the broth bubbling away over the fire had given him a sudden appetite. Perhaps it was lack of direction, rather than laziness, that allowed the inn to be less cared for than it should be. As he was making up his mind to demand some broth, William came in from the outside door, carrying a basket of logs. He was the first to see Christopher and made haste to put down his load to better greet the master. Christopher didn’t miss the swift glances exchanged between his servants. It was natural for them to be discomfited at him arriving unannounced in their domain. He wanted to set down his rules for the household as speedily as possible, but his recent loss made him feel vulnerable. He needed to be liked. The compassion shown to him by Jane had shamed him, but her welcoming smile, dutiful but genuine, made him trust her and he found it easiest to speak first to her.
‘Are you making a pie, Jane?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘I look forward to tasting it.’
She looked embarrassed. ‘I can make another …’
‘She only means that the pie she is making is … ordered … for … a customer.’ William appeared as unhappy as his wife, but Sally, looking up from her scrubbing, showed no such trouble on her face.
‘He does like his pies, does Daniel Johnson. Best not cross him on that!’
Christopher smiled at her. ‘I would not wish a good customer to go without. By all means, Jane, make another. But while I am waiting I find I am very hungry. Would I be robbing this Mr Johnson if I had some of that broth?’
Jane went at once to the fire and ladled a little of the broth i
nto a bowl. ‘I can bring it to you in the parlour, sir.’
‘But there is no fire in the parlour.’ Christopher found he preferred the company of his servants to his own. ‘I will have it here.’
He made to sit on a nearby stool, but William wouldn’t have it. ‘I will fetch you a chair from the parlour, sir.’
He bustled away down the passage and returned with a chair the twin of the one in Christopher’s room. He set it to one side of the hearth, close enough but not too close to the heat of the fire. Christopher sat, feeling somehow chastised, but the broth and a heel of bread soaked in it did as much good to the inside of his body as the wash and fresh clothing had done for the outside. He realised, as he enjoyed the fire, that this was the first time since he was a child that he’d had a proper home, and the first time ever he had one to call his own. The thought, and the knowledge that he had no one to share it with, sent a pricking behind his eyes that threatened to overwhelm him, so he shifted in his chair and set his empty bowl on the hearth. It was removed and replaced almost immediately with a mug of beer.
‘William?’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I will need to speak to you about the running of the inn: the brewing of the beer, the purchase of spirits, the renting of rooms … I freely acknowledge I have much to learn. I intend to be fully involved with the inn and I have certain standards I wish to impose. This room seems clean enough, but as for the rest … they are not. I wish the furniture to be polished and the floors swept.’ He looked at Jane. ‘If you need to engage someone to help you then that must be done.’ She nodded. ‘But today I want my room cleaned properly, my linen washed as soon as may be and my suit brushed.’
The Outrageous Fortune of Abel Morgan Page 2