Hugo tried to avoid any dealings with the Finches, but Henry Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, who was also a disillusioned Catholic and one of Hugo’s associates, had expressly asked him to visit the Finch estate, knowing full well that the desire for a title might induce the Finches to invest heavily in the Rebellion. They’d met at St. Nicolas some weeks ago, and Norfolk had been very clear on the subject, refusing to brook any argument from Hugo.
“Put aside your personal distaste, Hugo, and use your considerable powers of persuasion to enlist Finch’s support. I know he’s a deplorable scoundrel and a reprobate, but his contribution just might turn the tide in our favor, so keep your loathing in check. I expect to hear from you before Easter.” With that, Norfolk had departed, leaving Hugo feeling angry and defiant, but in no position to refuse.
Hugo’s initial plan had been to visit the Finch estate, make his case for the Rebellion, hopefully secure a healthy contribution, and be on his way by the following morning, but that was before fate dumped Neve Ashley at his feet and made a dog’s breakfast of all his plans. He could feel her eyes boring into him as they rode in silence, but couldn’t bear to meet her gaze. He didn’t blame her, as she so wrongly assumed; he blamed himself. He’d promised her his protection and instead, stupidly left her alone in the house with Lionel Finch as he went to rouse the men. Of course, he had no way of knowing that she would leave Frances and come flying down to berate him to his face, but should have expected it. Neve was outspoken and direct, two qualities which nearly left her maimed and Jem dead.
Hugo stared into the flames, his mind unable to rest. Had he returned even a few minutes later, Neve would have been badly damaged, and he’d have only himself to blame. His blood boiled as he recalled the sight of Neve curled in on herself on the floor, covering her face with her hands and whimpering in fear as Finch towered over her, his eyes burning with hatred and his face contorted with rage. Hugo had seen firsthand what Finch had been capable of, the sight of Frances’s battered body still in front of his eyes, and now he wanted to hurt Neve, disfigure her for life, possibly even kill her. Hugo had barely even registered Jem on the floor as he grabbed Finch, desperate to avert the blow that was aimed for Neve’s face. He could hardly remember what he did next, all he could recall was going berserk, and trying to strangle Finch as Neve screamed for him to stop —- and then he saw Jem.
Hugo threw another log on the fire and watched as a shower of sparks lit up the night sky, twirling and glowing for a moment before their light grew dim and was swallowed up by the night. That’s what life was like; a tiny spark that glowed so bright against the darkness before it was snuffed out, Hugo thought bitterly. He’d had a lot of similar thoughts recently, no doubt brought about by Neve’s prophecy of his impending doom. He’d always known that he was taking a great risk, found the odds to be acceptable, and forged ahead nevertheless, but suddenly he wasn’t as steady in his resolve. Neve had said that there would never be another Catholic king on the throne of England. Was she right? Was it really possible that people who adhered to the true faith would never be allowed anywhere near the seat of power in the country he loved? Would sacrificing his life change that? Not very likely.
Hugo pushed his fists into his eyes until he saw stars of red and green dancing in front of him and his eyeballs ached, but he couldn’t extinguish the bleak picture of the future that sprang to mind. What he was doing was futile; Jane had said as much. Despite their age difference, Hugo always listened to his sister. She knew him like no other and was the only person who had his best interests at heart. She’d begged and pleaded with him not to get involved with this scheme, telling him that he had to accept their situation for what it was.
“Hugo, listen to me,” Jane demanded as she paced in front of the roaring hearth on a frigid night in January. She’d just come to him after Ernest died, needing a few months to regenerate her spirit after the years of her husband’s illness. “You must forget this foolishness. England wants a Protestant king, and a Protestant king it’ll have, one way or another. If James has a son and secures the succession, there will be open rebellion. What we must do is ride out the storm. Charles was a Protestant king, and we were all right under his rule. Our family prospered.”
“We prospered because we kept our religion a secret. We could never worship out in the open, get married by a priest, or have the children baptized in the eyes of God without looking over our shoulder. Father forbade us to tell anyone that we are Catholic for fear of being discriminated against and ostracized. Have you forgotten about all the members of government who were ousted because of their faith to please Parliament? Janey, this is not you talking; these are Ernest’s words. He always backed the winning side.”
“Don’t you disrespect the memory of my husband,” Jane hissed. “Ernest married me and had been a good husband to me. I came to him pregnant with another man’s child, and he loved me, cared for me, and treated my son as his own. Oh, he knew, Hugo,” Jane informed him, hands on hips, sneering at Hugo’s look of surprise. “He knew Clarence wasn’t his. You never told him the truth when you contracted the marriage, but he knew. Just as he knew that he’d never have a son of his own, at least not with me. My womb had been damaged by Clarence’s birth, so there could be no more children. Ernest could have divorced me, but he remained loyal to me and left his entire estate to Clarence instead of his daughter. He didn’t back the winning side in my case. He backed a lame horse.”
“Jane, I didn’t mean to imply anything about Ernest,” Hugo relented. Jane was rarely in a passion, but he’d provoked her this time. If only she knew the truth about Ernest, but she’d never learn it from him. Ernest was gone now, so there was no point in hurting Jane any further; no point in opening her eyes to something that had remained hidden all this time; something that he would take to his own grave to protect his sister.
“Hugo, there’s no right or wrong, only survival, and Ernest knew that. Shouting his religious views from the rooftops would not have benefited him, so he kept quiet and went about his business, just like father. Have you ever considered that maybe you should do the same?”
“No, I haven’t,” Hugo replied as he tried to keep his anger in check.
“Hugo, you’re thirty-four. You need to get married, have children, and stop trying to change the world. It will change soon enough without you.” With that, Jane took a seat across from him, a look of challenge in her eyes.
“You know I can’t marry,” Hugo retorted.
“Yes, you can. Your marriage was annulled within the law. Legally, you can marry. If you feel some misplaced loyalty to a woman who’s borne several children to her new husband, then you’re just being a martyr and a fool,” Jane concluded, giving him a triumphant glare.
Hugo couldn’t help but laugh, taking Jane completely by surprise. She opened her mouth to protest, red spots blooming in her cheeks as she stared him down, unsure of what she said to prompt his mirth.
“And what are you laughing at?” she demanded.
“I’m laughing at the way you just obliterated everything I hold dear. I should turn my back on my faith, forget my marriage vows, and just do whatever it takes to prosper. Correct?”
“In a nutshell, yes. You are too old for all this childish idealism.”
Hugo actually snorted with laughter, suddenly feeling lighter than he had in years. Jane had a way of making everything appear perfectly simple, and it was, as long as you didn’t allow conscience to get in the way. Hugo loved his little sister, but he also knew her flaws. Jane had lain with a man promised to another, gotten with child, and then married another man without nary a qualm about deceiving him. She made out all right for herself though, so maybe she had a point about survival.
Hugo smiled ruefully at the glowing remnants of the fire as he remembered the argument. He’d forgiven Jane, of course; he always did, but perhaps his practical little sister had a point. Maybe he was just an idealistic fool, too old to keep with such outdated principles. Neve Ashley
had told him as much. His father always said that women saw things more clearly, and perhaps they did, unhindered by men’s notions of honor and duty. Their allegiance was to their family: a duty to love, protect, and nurture.
Hugo finally wrapped himself in a blanket and lay on his back, staring at the multitude of stars in a cold, black sky. He was far from happy, but his spirit felt more at peace. Frances and Jem would recover, Neve thankfully wasn’t hurt, and he had some serious thinking to do about the future.
Chapter 30
Sister Julia came to wake me before dawn. The sisters had finished their morning prayers and were now gathered in the dining hall for breakfast, to which I was invited. I would have preferred to have a little something in my cell, but it was rude to refuse, so I splashed some water on my face and hands, threw on my cloak, and tucked my errant curls into my cap before following Sister Julia into the foggy April morning. My face immediately grew moist as a gentle mizzle fell from the sky, coating my skin and cloak with a sheen of dampness. The flame from Sister Julia’s candle moved in front of me, the tiny sphere of light distorted by the fog and seemingly floating of its own accord.
I felt terribly awkward as I entered the dining hall and everyone’s eyes turned toward me, but the sisters smiled and behaved as if my presence there was the most natural thing. I was given hot porridge with honey and milk and more of the brown bread I had last night. The bread was too hard to bite, since without modern-day preservatives, it only lasted a few hours and the fresh loaves hadn’t been baked yet. The sisters tore off chunks and mixed it into their porridge, so as not to be wasteful. I did the same. The warmth of the porridge was most welcome. The cell had no heat, so I was chilled to the bone, especially after washing with the icy water. The nuns seemed unaffected by the cold, eating their breakfast in near silence and getting ready to go about their daily chores.
“Where’s Lord Everly?” I asked the nun next to me.
“He’s outside the wall in the meadow,” she answered, giving me a searching look. I obviously wasn’t Lady Everly, so the nuns drew their own conclusions. They were good at keeping their opinions to themselves, but I could see a few judgmental glances directed my way. Little did they know that our relationship was as platonic as could be, and not the sordid liaison of their collective imagination.
“And Frances and Jem?”
“Resting peacefully,” the sister at the head of the table answered, giving me an encouraging smile. Perhaps she was the Mother Superior of this convent, if that’s what it was.
“May I see them?”
“Certainly. Sister Julia will take you,” the nun replied as she finished her meal and rose to leave. “God be with you, Mistress.”
“And you,” I replied automatically.
By the time breakfast was finished it was fully light outside. The fog still swirled all around us, wrapping its fingers around trees and buildings and pooling in the hollows, but the mizzle had stopped and a hazy sun tried to peek through the clouds. I looked around me, wondering if anyone knew of the existence of this community. Were they completely self-sufficient? For someone like me, it was difficult to accept that someone could live without going to the shops or hearing the news of the outside world, and survive entirely on the fruits of one’s labors in total isolation, but it seemed that the sisters were completely cut off, and that’s how they liked it. As I followed Sister Julia to the hut where Hugo took Frances last night, I tried to get a good look at her face. She was older than I originally thought, perhaps somewhere in her mid-twenties, so around my age. There was something strikingly familiar about her large gray eyes. She wasn’t very tall, but underneath her habit her body seemed lithe and strong, typical of a woman who spent her life doing hard physical word.
“I’ll leave you here, Mistress Ashley,” Sister Julia said as she stopped in front of the hut. “I have to start on my chores now if I hope to finish by midday.” She smiled and disappeared into the barn which was directly across. I could hear the bleating of sheep and lowing of cows that needed to be milked and allowed out to graze. A soothing voice was having an intense discussion with one of the cows, questioning its bad temper and asking it to stand still. I turned and walked into the hut, nervous, but eager to see the patients.
It was a two-room building, the low rafters of the front room hung with various drying herbs that gave the place a pleasant medicinal smell. There was a long wooden table beneath the high window, spread with various roots and leaves and littered with bowls and bottles. A sharp cutting knife lay forgotten, and a pestle and mortar contained some kind of greenish powder that smelled minty. A neatly made cot stood against the back wall, flanked by a low stool on which there was a candlestick, pitcher, and a prayer book. Sister Angela’s cloak hung on a peg in the wall, looking like a giant bat taking a well-deserved rest.
The back room was Sister Angela’s infirmary. It had two cots placed close to the hearth for warmth. Sister Angela was poking up the fire as I entered her domain, but came out to greet me, smiling in welcome.
“Good morning,” Sister Angela said as she met me halfway. “You must be anxious about your companions.” She was an older woman, probably in her mid-sixties, but I could see traces of beauty in her face. I wondered if she had been a nun all her life, or if she had joined the order in later years after something or someone left her weary of the outside world. She had a wonderful serenity about her, which radiated like a force field and made me feel slightly more optimistic.
“I am. How are they?” I asked, hoping that Sister Angela’s cheery demeanor was part of the answer.
“Oh, they are much improved. I gave them each a drop of the juice of the poppy last night to help them sleep. Sometimes rest is the only thing I can truly offer, especially when the injuries are internal, but they both enjoyed a peaceful night.” She beamed at me, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me.
“Will they be all right then?”
Sister Angela glanced quickly into the other room, took me by the elbow and led me closer to the outer door to prevent her patients from hearing her answer. “Mistress Ashley, all I can do is offer some pain relief and sympathy, but the rest is really in the hands of the Lord. The young woman has suffered severe blows to her stomach, but there’s no way to ascertain how extensive her internal injuries are. She’s not bleeding, which is a good sign in my opinion. I pray that the bruising is mostly external and will heal in its own time. Whether she will be able to bear children in the future is something only time will tell.”
“And Jemmy?” I enquired, tense with worry.
“Jem will be somewhat muddled and perhaps drop off to sleep at odd times for a week at least, I think, but I checked him before giving him the sleeping draught, and he seemed relatively alert and his vision unaffected. Had he been seeing double then there would be cause for concern. He has a lump on his head the size of an egg, but I put a poultice on it and it will go away in a few days. I don’t think he will suffer any long term effects, just a terrible headache and fatigue. He needs rest and peace and quiet.” The three things we couldn’t provide for him at the moment.
“May I see them?”
“Of course,” Sister Angela replied and led me back toward the other room.
Jem was curled up on his cot, his mop of dark hair and one cheek the only things visible above the blankets, but his breathing was even and his color appeared to be healthy. Frances reclined on her cot close to the hearth, her face rosy from the heat, her eyes wide open and clear. She smiled as she saw me.
“Mistress Ashley,” she called out. “Come and sit by me.”
I looked to Sister Angela for permission, and she gave me an encouraging nod as she pushed a stool toward me. I pulled up the stool and sat down next to the cot. Sister Angela retreated to the table in the other room where she continued to slice something as she kept an eye on her wards. .
“Frances, how do you feel?” I asked as I took the girl’s warm hand, partially as a gesture of comfort and partially to
feel her pulse, which was steady and strong beneath my finger on her wrist.
“I’m much improved. My stomach still pains me, but I slept well for the first time in a year, I think,” she replied, casting a grateful look at the nun who was happily grinding something in her mortar. “Every night I went to bed and lay there terrified, not knowing whether Lionel would come to me or not. I don’t know which was worse: having him come, hurt me, then leave, or not having him come and wonder if he would come later or in the morning,” Frances said, looking to me for understanding. “This fear in me was like a snake, coiled in my belly, ready to strike at any time. Sometimes I would be sick from the anxiety, and Lionel thought I might be with child. He beat me when I began to bleed.”
“Oh, Frances, I’m so sorry,” I said, knowing how inadequate that sounded.
“Don’t be sorry,” Frances said as she smiled at me and squeezed my hand. “You saved me. You and Lord Everly saved me, and I will never go back again. Ever.”
“Are you all right with staying here?” I couldn’t offer her any other alternative, but I wanted to know that she gave her consent to being left with the nuns. I would hate to think that she felt she had no say in her life. Again.
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