“I ran away from the brothel,” Jem announced proudly. “There was a small window in the cellar. I climbed up on a barrel, smashed the glass, and managed to squeeze through. I got a few cuts, but I was able to get away. I was so scared of what they would do to me. I heard some of the other boys talking. They didn’t seem to mind it so much, but I couldn’t…,” Jem’s voice trailed off as he recalled what he had heard.
Hugo felt a blinding rage as he imagined what Jem must have endured. For a child, who believed that adults were to be trusted and respected, to hear that grown men would want to use him that way must have been terrifying and utterly beyond comprehension. Hugo could understand two willing participants finding pleasure in each other, but to force a small child was monstrous. Of course, it wasn’t all that different from the regular brothels where girls as young as eleven were on offer; some of them highly valued and sold to the highest bidder since they were still intact.
“Did anyone hurt you?” Hugo asked, his voice tight with fury.
“The man in charge wasn’t unkind,” Jem replied, “he ordered me to bathe, and I was measured for new clothes. He wanted me to wear velvets and silks. I knew it was just a matter of time before he’d force me to do things. There were no women in that place,” Jem confided, “not even servants.”
He wiped his nose with his filthy sleeve as he fought tears that weren’t far away. “I found work in a livery, but they didn’t pay me. Just gave me one meal a day, and a sorry one at that, and allowed me to sleep in the hayloft. Once I’d heard about the trial, I knew that Master Bradford would be there, so I resolved to see him and find out the truth for myself. I can come back, can’t I?” he suddenly asked, his face growing pale with concern as his eyes swam with unshed tears.
“Jem, I’m not going back. I am a wanted man, and there are those who won’t rest until I’m dead. I’m going to France, but I will take you with me, if that’s what you wish. If not, you can go back with Master Bradford, and he will look after you until such a time as I’m able to return to England.”
“I want to go with you,” Jem wailed, alarmed. “Not that Master Bradford hasn’t been most kind,” he added with a glance at Brad. “Please, take me with you, your lordship. I won’t be any trouble; I promise.”
“Of course you won’t. Mistress Ashley will be overjoyed to see you. We must get you some clean clothes though. These reek,” Hugo said, wrinkling his nose and making Jem laugh.
**
I nearly went out of my mind with anxiety as I watched the gloomy afternoon turn into a wet, dark evening. The pitter-patter of gentle rain turned into the drumming of a downpour, but Hugo still had not come back. I tried to light the candle, but my hands shook so badly that I finally ventured downstairs and lit my candle against one of the candles in the taproom, returning upstairs with my hand around the flame to keep it from blowing out, thanks to the numerous drafts coming in from beneath doors and through window frames despite the shutters. If there’s one thing I truly missed about the modern world, besides electricity and plumbing, it was the welcome distraction of television, books, and phones. With nothing to do but worry, the time dragged interminably, my imaginary scenarios growing more harrowing with every passing hour. I nearly jumped out of my skin by the time I heard a gentle rap on the door and Hugo’s voice.
“Where in God’s name have you been?” I tore into him, but grew silent as I realized that someone was hovering behind him in the dark corridor. A little shape materialized from behind Hugo’s back, the wide smile making me forget all my worries as my heart leaped with joy.
“Oh, Jem,” I cried as I drew him into my arms kissing the top of his head, which smelled as if it’d been freshly washed. Jem was wearing clothes that were way too big for him, but he seemed so happy that my heart nearly burst.
“Where did you find him?” I asked Hugo, who looked pretty happy himself.
“Jem found Brad after the trial. I always said he was a clever little lad.”
“And where’s Archie?”
“Organizing supper and bullying the innkeeper’s wife into making Jem a gooseberry tart.” Hugo looked around the room, which was still in disarray. “You haven’t packed. We’re leaving tomorrow morning.”
“I couldn’t settle down to anything. I was too worried,” I replied. “It won’t take long; not like we have much.”
We had a merry feast that night with a gooseberry tart for dessert. No one mentioned Max, but his sentence felt like a two-thousand-pound elephant perched on the narrow bed in our tiny room. But, we’d done all we could, and now it was time to go. Hugo invited Jem to sleep on a pallet in our room, but Archie tactfully maneuvered Jem out of the door. Archie slept in a communal bed shared by several travelers, despite Hugo’s offer of his own room.
Archie was a simple man who felt more comfortable in haylofts and barns, and I suspect didn’t want to put Hugo to any extra expense. Jem would be safe with him, and probably more warm and comfortable than he would be on the floor. Jem pushed Archie out of the way and threw himself at Hugo one more time before leaving. He wrapped his arms about Hugo’s waist and pressed his cheek to Hugo’s chest; his mouth curved in a sweet smile. “I love you,” he whispered as Hugo held him close, his own blissed-out expression a testament to his feelings for the child.
Chapter 48
The morning of All Hallows’ Eve found Max huddled in the corner of his cell; his head pounding and his eyes burning from lack of sleep. He’d tried to rest, but every time he so much as nodded off, he came awake with a jolt, remembering the trial and the sentence that awaited him. Knowing that he’d avoided the death penalty was a cold comfort when he thought of what awaited him in the near future. He’d always been in good shape, taken care of himself, and watched his diet, but a healthy twenty-first century man who could walk for miles or run on the treadmill was no candidate for seven years of indentured labor on some plantation.
Max had no illusions about what to expect. He’d seen the films, and knew that reality would be that much worse. Even without cruelty, poor diet, and fourteen-hour days, he wouldn’t be likely to last more than a year. He was a spoiled, pampered, thirty-eight-year-old man who’d never done a day of hard physical labor in his life.
And, even if he somehow managed to survive this trial by fire, what then? How would he ever find his way back to England with no money, no friends, and no connections? Max had begged Gideon Warburton to give him the name of his benefactor, but the lawyer refused, saying that the person in question wished to remain anonymous. Whatever compelled this man to help him seemed to be at an end. He’d been spared beheading, at great cost to his patron, but now he was on his own — left to fight for his life with whatever life skills he possessed.
Thoughts of his mother had tormented Max all night. He’d never see her again; never have a chance to tell her that despite all the tongue-lashings, the criticism, and the pressure to get married, he loved her. He was the last of the line, so once he was pronounced legally dead by the authorities, the title and estate would go to his next of kin, and that would kill Naomi Everly if she weren’t already dead. God, he wasn’t even sure who that would be. There were a few cousins on his father’s side, but Max never had much time for them, had never gotten his affairs in order or made out a will.
Max realized that he was shaking, whether from fear or cold he couldn’t say, but his teeth were chattering, and salty, hot tears ran down his cheeks as he heard the scrape of the key in the lock. Two guards hauled him to his feet, fettered him, and pushed him out the door, jeering at him the whole time. They weren’t the usual guards who’d been handsomely paid by Gideon Warburton; they were men he’d never seen before, but they obviously knew all about him.
“Oh, but we will miss ye, yer lordship, won’t we, Dick? Such a model prisoner, and so well-mannered. I reckon that’ll serve ye well where ye’re going.” The guard laughed at his own wit, showing brown, crooked teeth.
“Oh, aye,” the other one chimed in. “He’ll
be the most admired slave in the West Indies, till the other “guests” find out what he’s been sent down for. No one likes a traitor, not even murderers and thieves. Oh, ye’ll have a fine time of it down there, to be sure.”
Max didn’t bother to reply, just allowed himself to be manhandled until he was standing outside in the cool, misty grayness of Halloween morning. He filled his lungs with what passed for fresh air in seventeenth-century London, and stepped into the open wagon that was to transport him to his destination.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked, knowing he’d get no answer.
The one named Dick shoved him, making him fall to his knees on the wagon bed. Max tried to get up, but the wagon lurched into motion, pitching Max forward onto his face, his fettered hands caught in front of his stomach, the iron slamming against his ribs as he fell hard. Max finally managed to sit up and lean against the rough wood of the wagon, but eventually the motion lulled him into drowsiness, and he sank to the bottom of the wagon, lying in a fetal position on the smelly straw and staring at the ominous-looking sky until he fell asleep, welcoming the temporary oblivion.
Chapter 49
I huddled deeper into my cloak and pulled on my hood to keep out the bitter wind off the river. The air was fresher today, most of the muck having been washed away by the hard rain of the night before and carried down to the riverbank and into the Thames itself. The water was mud-brown, with various bits of rubbish floating on the current and bumping against the sides of the packet boats which were already out in full force, their lanterns glowing as they swayed from side to side with the rolling of the boats. The ferrymen called out to each other, their voices muffled by the fog, which was as yellow as pea soup and nearly as thick.
London was stirring to life; the shutters flung open to the gray day outside and the empty streets beginning to grow congested with passing wagons and pedestrians. The dark outline of the Tower loomed to my left; the screeching of the ravens loud in my ears as we cantered past. The streets were nearly dark despite the hour, the angry clouds obscuring the sky like a filthy blanket. Hugo and I rode in front, with Archie and Jem, who was seated in front of him, bringing up the rear — our little party leaving London for what could be years.
I wanted to feel hopeful, but we still had to get to Portsmouth and find a ship. At this point, we’d take a ship bound for just about anywhere as long as it took us from the shores of England, where Hugo was still in constant danger. We’d left at dawn, hoping to reach Portsmouth by late afternoon tomorrow. Archie would leave us in Surrey to go fetch Frances from the convent before meeting us in Portsmouth.
I had to admit that I was glad Frances would be coming with us. I thought of her all the time; the tiny face of baby Gabriel often in my dreams. I smiled and cooed to him as I held him close, watching the pink eyelids flutter as he fell asleep in my arms. I’d remembered the desolation I’d felt after my miscarriage, so I could only imagine what poor Frances must be feeling after having given birth and holding her live baby, believing that they had a future together. A new place would mean a new lease on life, a new beginning, and she deserved that much. Frances would be fifteen in December; she still had her whole life ahead of her, and I wanted to believe that Hugo and I could help make it a happy one.
Once we left London behind, the road to Portsmouth, which had been so congested only a month ago, was now nearly empty. An occasional coach passed us in the opposite direction, or a lone traveler on horseback, but for the most part we were alone, especially at such an early hour. Had it been market day, countless wagons would be streaming into the city, laden with grain, produce, and dairy products.
I was glad that it was easy-going, despite the gathering clouds which threatened an epic downpour sometime soon. I’d seen a flash of lightning split the sky off to the south, and a distant rumble of thunder rolled through the deserted countryside. I dreaded the idea of being out in the storm and getting soaked through, but we had little choice. Stopping at an inn and waiting out the storm would put us back by several hours, which we couldn’t afford.
Hugo was unusually quiet this morning, a stark contrast to the joy he felt last night when his eyes hardly ever left Jem, and his lips stretched into a happy smile as Jem devoured the last of the tart and licked his sticky fingers. I glanced behind us. Archie was staring off into the distance, his hand relaxed on the reins, and Jem looked the picture of contentment as he leaned against Archie and gazed around with interest, his troubles already forgotten. I maneuvered my horse closer to Hugo and reached out to touch his hand. “Are you all right?”
Hugo turned to face me. He looked tired and stern. His hair, most of which was thankfully hidden by his hat, had faded to a shade of bronze, and his eyes were red-rimmed from the prolonged wearing of contacts. We didn’t have any contact solution, and although Hugo took them out at night, and I washed them out with water before he replaced them in the morning, his eyes were irritated. I was beginning to wonder if they impaired his vision, but he never complained.
“I keep trying to come to terms with the fact that my sister knowingly condemned an innocent man to death, for that’s what she thought would happen to Max, but I simply can’t. My mind keeps searching for some explanation or an excuse for her behavior, when I know full well that there isn’t one.”
“The syphilis…” I murmured.
“No, Neve. This is not the act of a person whose mind is teetering on the brink of insanity. This is pure malice, carefully planned and flawlessly executed. She wanted me dead, and if she couldn’t have that, she wanted me dead in the eyes of the law.”
“I’m sorry, Hugo. I can only imagine how much that must hurt you,” I replied, remembering my mother passed out on the kitchen table in a pool of her own vomit. That had hurt. Knowing that my mother got drunk every night without any thought for my well-being had been a terrible betrayal, but my mother had been weak and broken-hearted, not driven by a desire for a title and financial gain.
“It’s always the people closest to us who hurt us the most,” I said, and Hugo nodded, realizing what I was referring to. He didn’t say anything, but reached for my hand and held it in his warm one, silently promising not to be one of the people who caused me pain. I squeezed his hand, sealing the pact between us.
We rode in silence for a while. Jem had fallen asleep against Archie’s chest after devouring a buttered roll I’d brought for him from the inn. The child was so hungry and tired from his ordeal that it would take weeks for him to fully recover. I’d made sure to bring enough food to give him something to eat every two hours or so. It wasn’t much, just some bread, cheese, a few slices of cold pork and several apples, but it would tide him over until we stopped somewhere for a hot meal once it began to grow dark. I was actually feeling peckish myself, so I pulled out an apple and bit into it, enjoying the juicy firmness and the sweet-tart flavor of the freshly-picked fruit. I still had a few prenatal vitamins left, but I tried to eat as many fresh fruits and vegetables as I could find in an effort to augment our diet, which consisted mostly of bread and meat. British cuisine had never been in the same vein as French, Italian, or even Spanish, but in the seventeenth century, the fare was so unvaried and devoid of nutritional value that it made me long for the lovely food we might eat once in France.
I had to admit that I was nervous about the future. With my rudimentary knowledge of French and my limited exposure to the ways of the nobility, the thought of being presented at the Court of Louis XIV was frightening. I’d heard how cruel and unforgiving French courtiers could be, and dreaded being the subject of scrutiny and ridicule, but I didn’t want to burden Hugo with my worries; he had enough to concern himself with, not the least of which being the birth of our child.
Despite nearing the third trimester, I tried not to dwell on the coming birth, repeating to myself like a mantra that everything would be all right. I knew no such thing, but I had to believe it, or I would come undone and take Hugo with me. I finished my apple, threw away the core, and
rubbed my hand over my belly, which suddenly shifted sideways. The baby had woken up from the nap it had been lulled into by the motion and was reacting to the sugar in the fruit. “Hello, there,” I whispered as either a foot or an elbow pushed against my hand.
We had to be about two hours south of London by the time I heard, or rather felt, the thundering of hooves coming from the direction of London. Hugo motioned for us to shift to the side of the road to allow the riders to pass. There appeared to be four of them, riding hell for leather. The day was bleak, but the gray light still reflected off the breastplates and scabbards the men wore. Their hats were pulled low over their bearded faces, their features difficult to make out. I hoped they would just pass us quickly and be on their way, but something about their breakneck speed on the sleepy road made me anxious, especially since Hugo took my horse by the bridle and pulled it closer to the side of the road. I assumed that he did it to keep me out of the way of the mud that flew from beneath the hooves as they churned the damp dirt of the road. I turned to Hugo just in time to witness the dramatic transformation in his face, which he quickly rearranged into his normal expression. My head whipped back, and I stared at the oncoming riders, alarmed by what Hugo had seen.
The men were riding two abreast. The first two appeared to be men-at-arms, rather than soldiers. They were dressed as civilians except for the breastplates and swords, but wore no helmets nor bore any sigil identifying them as soldiers of the king. They were big men, broad across the chest and wide of shoulder, with blunt features that were so common in peasants and yeomen.
A third, similarly attired man rode next to someone of smaller stature who wasn’t wearing any armor, but was decked out in a flowing velvet cape which streamed behind him like a full sail. His hat displayed colorful plumage, and his face was clean-shaven, but framed by his blond wig, its curls hanging halfway down his chest. I would have recognized the man anywhere. Lionel Finch. My heart began to hammer against my ribs as my extremities grew cold with fear. What was he doing here, and could this be a coincidence? He might not recognize Hugo with his lighter hair and blue eyes, but he knew me, and he’d seen Archie as well as Jem. There was no way he could just gallop past us without noticing.
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