by Smith, Skye
"Carrying Robert Blake's child!" Britta exclaimed. "But Sarah is still a handsome woman, and he is such a short toad. If she had only told me that she was looking for a husband, I could have found her a far better match here in London."
"Britta, they care for each other deeply so take care when you insult him or their union. They are to be wed once the son is born, and I have given them my blessing.” His blessing was needed because Sarah had also been widowed, and he had accepted her petition to also become his second wife so that she and her sister Venka could live together. "He is my best friend, and he is our clan's connection to the port of Lyme, and that port is critical to our plans for settling in Bermuda." He used her pouting silence to get back to his original question. "So where is the admiral?"
"Chichester, Portsmouth, or Southampton depending on the day and which ships are where," she replied. "Ever since the navy bombarded Bridlington in February in an attempt to stop the queen's invasion from landing, the navy has become more cautious. Naval commanders have been staying neutral in the battles between Englishmen, and have been refusing missions unless they are expressly to protect English shores and ships from foreigners."
"But the queen's invasion force was mostly foreigners ... German, Dutch, and French mercenaries."
"Which was why the navy tried to intercept the convoy, and why it was protected by the Dutch fleet. It is also why they tried to destroy the army and supplies that had been landed. But of course, you know this better than anyone, having been there."
Her manner had become very businesslike, and he forced himself not to interrupt. When she had first come to London, she had been very much a comely country milk maid. Under the tutelage of the Rich family, she had gained gowns, poise, and manners enough to charm powerful men. In the company of powerful men she had become not just man-shrewd, but politics-shrewd.
She caught his eye and said, "It was a great folly of mis-judgement for those ships to target the queen herself."
Daniel said nothing. It had been Blake's gun crew who had targeted the queen, and while Blake was doing the shooting, he himself had been on the wheel of the attacking ship, the clan's main ship, the Swift. She was one of the few people in England who knew this. She was not only rebuking Blake, but also him. He did not speak for a long while, for he felt no need to defend himself or Blake. They had done what they had done - at that time, for damn good reasons - at that time, and there was nothing to be gained by defending the decision to armchair ,er, boudoir commanders.
Her voice lost the critical edge and softened as she spoke of family matters. "So as for the move to Bermuda? Sarah is not moving because her son is at college in Cambridge, and her new son is by Blake who will presumably marry her. Venka is not moving because the women of the Fens need her leadership to navigate these violent times. Teesa is moving to Bermuda because the settlement will need a healer and seer. You are moving because as the Vice-Governor you can assure the success of our settlement. What about me? Does the family want me to move to Bermuda or not?"
"You have made a good life for yourself here that is separate from the family and from the clan," he replied with a shrug. "We all assumed that you would want to stay in London. After all, it is your, um, personal sponsor who is also our sponsor in Bermuda."
She caught his eyes with a look that could melt any heart, "Daniel, if you ask me to move to Bermuda," she told him, "then I will go gladly. There we can be together, you and I, at last. Don't you see? Neither my mother nor my aunt can continue on as your second wives if you live in Bermuda. We will be free to marry. Oh Daniel, please ask me to go with you."
Her eyes were searching his. His head was swimming. Anything other than his immediately asking her to come to Bermuda would be a hurtful rejection. There was no time to ponder the logic, and this was no time to pose rejectful objections. Ever so softly he said, "Come with me to Bermuda," and again lost himself in her eyes. He was prepared to be smothered in kisses, or perhaps thrown down on the bed and ravished by this wondrous woman, for their mutual longing for each other need no longer be denied. Instead her eyes looked away and down at the floor.
She had been expecting him to explain why he couldn't ask her; why it was illogical; why she was better off here than on a primitive island. Men were such bastards. Instead he had left the decision to her, and it was not an easy decision. She had spent years building a life for herself here in London. A good life; an interesting life; a life amongst wealthy and powerful men and women. How dare he wipe that away so easily without thought? How dare he stop resisting her, now of all times, with so much at stake? "I will go with you, but for now it must remain our secret. Robert must be the first to know of it, and I must be the one to tell him."
"I will be seeing Robert within days," he told her as he put a finger under her chin and lifted it until their eyes met again. "I don't mind telling him."
"No, you mustn't. He must hear it from me and only when the time is right. Don't you understand? I am like a fairy princess with a magic wand. For a wish to come true all that I need do is to kiss that wand. But you see, Robert is the keeper of that wand." She smiled at him demurely, apologetically. "It hangs between his thighs."
In truth, at the very moment that she was describing Robert's magic wand, his own magic wand was making a pest of itself to the point of aching, and it would have liked nothing better than to have its own wishes kissed true. After two days in the saddle it was a wonder that any blood could even reach it, never mind swell it.
The ache of the swelling, and the lust it was causing in him were becoming unbearable so he tried to put his mind to something else in hopes of easing it. To do that he had to close his eyes to her comeliness and turn away from her. He tried to bring scenes of the terrors of battle to his closed eyes. That didn't work, so he tried thinking of football instead. That worked. There is nothing like silly games of football to lessen a man's lust.
"Penny?" she asked.
He couldn't very well belittle her heartfelt offer by telling her about the time he made a long and perfect leading pass onto the boot of a mate who was all alone up near the goal, so instead he said, "Then all of this must remain our secret. Nothing will be told, nothing will be promised, nothing will be assured, and most of all, nothing will be consummated until both of us stand together on Bermudan soil." He felt like he had just betrayed his best wand, er, friend.
For the longest time they just sat next to each other and smiled at each other. In their clan, family relationships were never simple, never obvious, but their situation was not as unusual or sinful as a Christian may judge. Under their traditional laws women could have more than one husband, and men could have more than one wife. It was allowed as a way of bringing mutual well being to a North Sea lifestyle that was filled with risk and marked by long separations.
That night they slept apart, that is, in the same bed for company but separated by a row of pillows. Neither got much sleep. She stayed awake to ask him questions about the Fens and the clan. He stayed awake because his wand was swollen with longing. His snoring kept her awake though he swore that he had not slept. The morning began early with the French maid bringing them a tray of kofe and pastries, and leaving with a look of disbelief at the row of pillows between them.
* * * * *
As soon as he left the well fortified gate on the south side of London Bridge, he was thankful that Femke was as ugly as snot and too small in stature for a tall man such as he. The London militia was recruiting in Southwark again, but this time for horses rather than men. The militia needed big strong horses, lots of them, either for pulling carts or for carrying armoured men. In truth, that was why most military horses were so clumsy to ride, because most horses that large were trained to cart reins which needed both hands to control them. The militia foragers not only did not want Femke, but jested about her skinny, bony look. That just showed how little they knew about horses.
Back in her 'huntress' era, Teesa had trained Femke to be her trick pony for sh
owing off her riding skill at fetes and festivals. They had practiced for months so that Teesa could ride her standing on the saddle, or back to front, or under her neck, or yes even standing on her head. Teesa's head, not Femke's. Frisian horses were all trained to one-handed reins, but reins were useless when doing such tricks so Femke was also trained to special words. Frisian words so that shouts from onlookers would not confuse her.
Since then the little mare had served Daniel well on long trips across rugged land, and even in deadly skirmishes. Slight though she was, she was as tough as nails, sure footed, and smarter than your average militia forager. Since most cavalryers had mighty high opinions of themselves, they wouldn't be caught dead riding a cheap and ugly horse, for that would not be fashionable. Because of this, not once had anyone tried to confiscate her or steal her in all of their journeys together.
As they wandered through the checkpoint set up by the militia foragers, she lifted her tail and farted at them. He patted her on the shoulder in praise of her healthy attitude, if not her healthy wind. She was a good friend and he often spoke to her as he rode. Explaining things to her, especially things that puzzled him, would often solved the puzzle. "We'll go to Chichester first, for it is the closest of the ports where I may find Warwick." She snorted in agreement.
"We won't go by way of Farnham because all the roads close to Windsor are choked with supply carts and troop movements. Lord General Essex has moved the main army out from Windsor to put Reading under siege. A march of fifteen miles and it only took him six months to decide on such a radical move. Will wonders never cease? The man is an ass."
At the appropriate word, Femke farted again. "What have they been feeding you?" and then he remembered. She had pinched some onions off a market barrow when he was buying some food for the road. Too many onions could kill a horse. Whatever it was in a fresh cut onion that absorbed poisons, also upset the tummies of horses. And sheep, and cattle, and dogs, and cats, and almost everything other than people. It was even worse if animals ate onions that had been cut open for a while. Even people should never eat raw onion unless they had just been cut open. Cut onion seemed to collect poisons as if it drew them out of thin air.
Because Femke had Saxon pony blood in her, she had an unusual gait. It was not 'up down jolt jolt' like a normal trot, but more like a quick step walk. With this gait she could achieve trotting speeds without the 'jolt jolt'. Without that constant jolting her joints did not take a beating, and neither did her back, and neither did his back. Sitting all day in a saddle was always tiring, but on her it wasn't bone jarring so both of them could ride longer and further. Often he let her pick her own path so that he could drift in and out of dreams and thoughts while he rode.
As usual at the start of a long ride, he idly speculated if the trouble that the nobility often had in stuffing their wives with children was due to the amount of time that nob men spent in the saddle. It was one of his pet theories, and whenever he mentioned it in a roadhouse over ales, it led to ribald jests about who really sired the bairn of the local nob. Now that he was promised to Britta, a young and vibrant woman ripe for childbearing, he wondered if he would discover that he also had nob-nuts. After all, over the last few years he had spent long days crushing his against saddles.
Though they reached the village of Guildford well before sundown, it had drizzled the entire way and neither of them felt much like pressing on further south to Dodalming or Milford. In truth, Femke would have kept going but Daniel was now imagining all sorts of horrible things about nob-nuts, so he made the decision to stop at the Angel Hotel on High Street. That the village had once seen better times was obvious by the number of abandoned houses that were falling into ruin. If the Angel weren't used for posting by the mail coaches between London and Portsmouth, and if the ruined castle weren't a popular cockpit, then Guildford would be a sorry village indeed.
He chose the Angel because it should be busy, or so he hoped, for he needed to learn the latest news about the road ahead. Not just the state of the road, but about any armed bands or flying squads that may be making a nuisance of themselves further south. The Angel's stable was reached through an archway that led to the coach yard, an arch high enough for him to ride under without dismounting, which he did.
He was met by a stable lad who stepped forward and reached out for the bridle with the confidence of someone well used to stopping a coach and four. He held Femke still while Daniel dismounted. "This token is for your horse and saddle," the lad said handing him a round of brass, "but take the rest of your gear with you now. I'll wipe her down and feed her."
Daniel nodded and told him, "Let's get her in out of the rain so I can unload her without getting everything wet.” He had draped an oilskin like a cloak over the rear half of him and her to keep them and his kit reasonably dry.
Instead of leading her into the stable, the lad led her back under the archway to be out of the rain. "Er, ugh, we shouldn't be goin' inta the stable just yet, sir. You getcherself a room and leave her to me." His eyes kept looking nervously towards the stable.
In these perilous times, Daniel had learned not to take chances. He pulled his double barreled dragon out of his saddle leathers and wiped the damp from the works with a snotty bit of linen, and then opened the lids of the two flash pans to make sure that the powder was still dry. It was, but he pushed at the powder with his little fingernail to make sure that it covered the firing vent beneath each pan.
On seeing the fine gun, the lad became even more nervous. "There be trouble in the stable, but not that kind o' trouble, sir." The tall rider turned away from him and began to walk towards the stable, so he reached out and tugged gently at his sleeve. "It's sickness sir. Bad sick they are. Came down sick the first night they stayed here. That was almost a week ago. Couldn't let them mess the beds and the rooms, but couldn't send them away so weak, so the innkeep put them up in the stables. This morning they wus much worse so I wus sent to find help."
"And what kind of help did they need?"
"The innkeep sent me to the local apothecary to ask."
Daniel groaned. Apothecaries were just Pepperers who charged more for the same mixed spices. "Isn't there a physician?"
"In Guildford? Give yer head a shake," the lad replied. "No, it's alright. There were two men there buying a lot of spices and they said they knew about shits and fevers. A Captain Tom Johnson and his subaltern Will Rosewell from over Basing House way. Rats, they asked me not to mention that."
"Basing House is a royalist garrison," Daniel told him and decided to cock his pistol before taking a look in the stable. The lad didn't budge so he asked him, "You said shits and fevers. How bad is it?"
"Well last night it started comin' out o' both ends like putrid water, an' they was sweatin' and writhin' about like they had tummy aches. No sense to their words at all."
"Did you touch them, or touch their shit?"
"Do I look thick? Nay, once they couldn't clean up their own mess, that was when I was sent for help."
"Well keep your hands clean until they leave," Daniel told him and then walked towards the stable door. It was open a crack and he listened for a while before going in. Everything seemed calm so he uncocked the gun and stuffed it under his belt, but entered with all stealth. At first all he saw were stalls and horses, but then over in the corner there were two men standing, talking with each other.
One saw him and called out in a muffled voice, "Stay away. These men are sick and it might be camp fever, so you don't want to come too close."
Daniel walked closer, and then closer still, all the time sniffing at the air. All he could smell were the normal stable smells of animals, animal shit, and old straw. He knew camp fever, knew it too well, and knew the putrid smell that came with it. His mind flooded with memories. Bad memories. Memories of the continental wars, where he and Blake had ridden together as Dutch pistoleers. "From the smell of it, or rather the lack of smell, it is not camp fever."
Camp fever was the trots t
hat spread through armies when the men were crowded together in one place too long with latrines that were not good enough, or not covered, or not dug fresh again each week. In towns they called the same thing goal fever, but it was the same sickness spread the same way, through the shit.
"If you know something, then come forward and share it with us," called the elder man, Johnson, in a muffled voice.
It took Daniel a moment to tie a kerchief over his mouth and nose, and now he too had a muffled voice. "I've seen camp fever without the smell but once. It was with some Spanish Infantry we captured after the Siege of Breda. Perhaps a quarter of them died of it, perhaps less. The Spanish called it, umm, hold on, they called it Fiebre Cama. Fiebre means fever, and Cama bed. Bed Fever.” He was now standing beside to two men. He looked down at the four poor souls lying in fouled blankets on fouled straw. Fouled but without the disgusting smell.
"Can you tell us anything else about it?" asked Johnson. "They have told us that they have been weak and suffering from aches and pains for weeks, but that the fever hit them only when they were riding here from Reading. Here they have suffered from fever and sweats but then this stomach thing happened and since then everything else is less important."
"It is anyone's guess as to what fever it is," The younger man, the subaltern Rosewell, explained. "There are so many illnesses that share these symptoms. Food poisoning, camp fever, goal fever, winter ague, bad air ague, sweating sickness, even a bad cold. They can all have such symptoms. How can we treat it if we don't know which it is."
Daniel went quiet while he thought. "Spots. In Holland it was also called spotted fever because once they were past the worst of the fevers, and would live, they got a rash on their skin. The rash could be anywhere, but strangely never on the face or the palms of the hands or the bottoms of the feet."
Rosewell leaned down beside the closest of the sick men and gingerly with a finger and thumb pulled the blanket down. The man shivered. He was naked underneath. He had likely stripped himself when fighting the sweats of the fever. "There is a rash," he told them and then covered the man again.