Read Just Beyond Tomorrow Online
Authors: Bertrice Small
Just Beyond Tomorrow (35 page)
“If we depart now while the fighting is concentrated by the Fort Royal, we can escape through Claps gate and then turn west,” Charlie told his brother.
“Why west?” Patrick demanded. “I would go north.”
“And so will Cromwell's forces after the battle is won,” Charlie said. “We go west because I have a friend who will shelter us until the worst is over. Then I intend going to Bristol and embarking on one of the family's ships for France. You can come with me and then cross back over to Scotland, or you can decide your own path back; but for the next few days, we must hide in a safe place.”
Outside, they could hear the fighting beginning to spill over into the streets themselves. The Fort Royal fell. General Leslie, so discouraged as he remembered Dunbar, decided there was no hope and did not properly support the king's men. Some of the soldiers began to throw down their arms in despair. The king, stripped of his armor now, attempted to no avail to rally his men. He had fought bravely all the day through, never sparing himself danger, and gaining the admiration of everyone, even his enemies. Now, however, the streets were beginning to run red with the blood of the dead and the dying. At dusk the king was finally convinced to flee himself and did so through the same gate that his cousin and the Duke of Glenkirk had earlier departed through. Night was now falling, and behind him the killing was still continuing as Cromwell's forces rounded up the opposing forces and sought desperately to find the king.
Charlie and Patrick had left Worcester at mid-morning, taking advantage of the confusion and disorder about them. As they had been told, the Claps gate was unguarded, being a small gate. Several miles from the town, the brothers turned west toward Wales. Eventually the uproar behind them died, and there was only the sound of birdsong and animals as they rode cross-country. Charlie obviously knew exactly where he was going, and Patrick followed obediently alongside of his elder sibling. Finally, as the sun began to sink behind the hills ahead of them, they turned off the road. The barely visible track they now followed meandered on for several miles, ending before a dark stone house that appeared deserted.
They had just stopped when a shot rang out, and Patrick Leslie swore, grabbing at his shoulder in pain.
“Barbara!”
Charlie shouted. “ 'Tis me, and you've just shot my brother, damnit!”
Charlie shouted. “ 'Tis me, and you've just shot my brother, damnit!”
There was a long silence, and then finally the front door to the house opened. A woman ran out, flinging herself into the Duke of Lundy's arms. “Oh, God, Charlie, I am sorry!” she exclaimed, and then she kissed him.
Charlie Stuart enjoyed the kiss for a brief moment, and then he untangled the clinging woman. “You have always acted without thought for the consequences, Barbara,” he said. “Now help my brother into the house, and I will stable our horses.”
With some difficulty, and wincing with pain, Patrick Leslie slid off his stallion. The woman put an arm about him, instructing him to lean on her as she aided him to gain the house.
“Which brother are you?” she asked him as she settled him in chair by the fire in her parlor. “The Scot from the look of you.”
“There are three Scots,” Patrick half groaned. “I'm the eldest. Patrick Leslie, Duke of Glenkirk, at yer service, madame.”
“Mistress Barbara Carver,” the woman said. “Hold still now while I get your jerkin off, my lord.”
“Do ye always shoot at yer visitors, madame?” Patrick demanded. He flinched as she removed his leather jerkin.
“The bullet is in your shoulder, my lord. I shall have to remove it,” she answered him, and she began to unlace his shirt.
“Ye'll nae put a hand to me, madame, until my brother is here in this room,” Patrick told her. “If ye hae some whiskey, I should welcome it. And ye hae nae answered my question.”
“These are difficult times, my lord,” Barbara Carver said softly. “It was dusk. I could not see who it was who approached my home. I am a woman alone but for an elderly servant.” While she spoke, she had moved to a sideboard that held decanters and drinking vessels. She poured something into a pewter dram cup and, coming to his side, handed it to him.
Patrick drank the whiskey down, his eyes widening with surprise as he recognized his own brew. “This is Glenkirk whiskey,” he said.
“Aye,” she answered him quietly, “it is. Your brother is very particular and saw that I had it for when he visited.”
“Yer husband?” Patrick asked.
“Dead for a number of years,” she answered him. “My father was a well-to-do merchant in Hereford. I have known your brother since I was a child, for my father serviced Queen's Malvern, and I would often come with him when he delivered his goods. Lord and Lady de Marisco were very kind to me. When my father died, my mother remarried his senior apprentice. My stepfather did not want me. He planned to put me into service, but I was not raised to be a servant. Lady de Marisco learned of my plight. She arranged my marriage to Squire Randall Carver, a childless widower, some years my senior. He was very good to me, but sadly I produced no children for him. I was a good wife, my lord. Please, let me put a bit of whiskey on your wound. It will sting, but we must avoid infection.” She carefully tore his shirt away around the bloody wound. “Well,” she observed, “ 'twas a clean shot at least.”
He laughed. He couldn't help himself. This was an absolutely ridiculous situation in which he found himself.
“Ouch!”
He blanched as she dabbed a small cloth on the open wound.
“Ouch!”
He blanched as she dabbed a small cloth on the open wound.
“Will he live?” Charlie demanded to know as he entered the room.
“The bullet must come out, but he would not have it until you were here,” Barbara Carver said.
“It's going to hurt like hell, little brother,” Charlie said almost cheerfully. “Give him lots of whiskey, Barbara, and then we'll get to work. The shoulder is nice and fleshy, Patrick, so nothing vital is in danger. You'll remain a few days with Barbara to heal, and then you had best be on your way home. I have no doubt that Cromwell's men will be out in force by the morrow, combing the countryside for royalists.”
“And if they come here?” Patrick demanded irritably.
“I'll put you in the priest's hole, my lord,” Barbara Carver said with a smile. She was, he noticed for the first time, a very pretty woman.
“The priest's hole?”
“I am a Catholic, my lord, which is why I remain here in my comfortable isolation. In this time, being a Catholic is even worse than being an Anglican.” Then she laughed. “It is rare that any come here but those who are invited or know they will be welcome.”
“Are there any ye might expect in the next few days?” Patrick asked her wryly. Having realized how lovely this woman was, he was now curious as to her real relationship to his brother. Surely Charlie hadn't been unfaithful to his Bess, whom he adored.
“Right now my friends are too busy chasing your friends,” she told him with another smile. Then she handed him not a dram cup, but beaker full of whiskey. “When you've finished it, my lord, we will begin. It will, as Charlie says, hurt, but it must come out.” She then turned to Charlie. “And where will you go now?”
“France,” he said. “The searchers will be going north and east at first. That will give me time to make my dash to Bristol. There is always an O'Malley-Small trading company ship there. By the time Cromwell's people turn south and east, I'll be in Bristol aboard my vessel. The king sent me away before the worst of the battle. Patrick and I escaped through the Claps gate. Actually, my brother shouldn't have been there at all. While he does not support Cromwell, he does not support the king either. Mother sent him to fetch me,” Charlie said with a small smile. “And my royal cousin feared if I was killed, Cromwell would claim the death of Charles Stuart and further muddy the waters of my family's eventual restoration, for while today was not their day, they will be restored in time.”
“God save the king,” Barbara Carver agreed. She turned back to Patrick. “Drink up, my lord. The sooner I get that bullet out of you, the sooner we can have a nice hot supper. My old Lucy is in the kitchen now preparing a meal for us.”
The Duke of Glenkirk swallowed down the whiskey. It burned inside his belly, and he found himself becoming almost drowsy. He leaned back in his chair. The fire was warm, and he felt all the cares of the last few weeks slipping away from him.
Flanna.
He dared to let his thoughts turn to his beautiful wife. When he returned to Glenkirk, their bairn would be born, and he would have her in his bed again. A smile of anticipation lit his handsome features, and then the sensation of pain shot through him. “Hellfire and damnation!” he swore, attempting to pull away from the pain, his green-gold eyes flying open to behold Mistress Barbara Carver digging at his bloody shoulder with what appeared to be a very sharp knife.
Flanna.
He dared to let his thoughts turn to his beautiful wife. When he returned to Glenkirk, their bairn would be born, and he would have her in his bed again. A smile of anticipation lit his handsome features, and then the sensation of pain shot through him. “Hellfire and damnation!” he swore, attempting to pull away from the pain, his green-gold eyes flying open to behold Mistress Barbara Carver digging at his bloody shoulder with what appeared to be a very sharp knife.
“Drink some more whiskey,” Charlie ordered him, and he saw that it was his brother who was holding him down.
“Jesu!”
Patrick swore again. “ 'Tis glad I am 'tis nae vital, madame!” And then he fainted.
Patrick swore again. “ 'Tis glad I am 'tis nae vital, madame!” And then he fainted.
“Thank heavens,” Mistress Carver said. “He was being so brave, but the damned bullet is buried farther than I anticipated. Now I can get at it.” She worked her knife deeper into the wound, and then smiling, she slowly levered the round lead pellet up until she was able to pick it out of his shoulder with her two fingers. She stared at it a moment, and then she handed it to Charlie. “A souvenir,” she told him. “Take it to your mother and tell her what your brother did for you in leaving his Scottish aerie and coming to help you.”
“I think not,” Charlie said with a chuckle, but he pocketed the bullet nonetheless.
Mistress Carver dressed Patrick's wound and bandaged it. “He'll live, but he'll feel the wound for weeks, I fear.”
“Where do you want him?” Charlie asked her.
“Put him in the bedroom next to mine. I'll want to look in on him in the night and make certain there is no infection,” she said.
Charlie picked up his brother, not some small feat, and exiting the parlor, carried him upstairs as he had been ordered. He gently removed Patrick's boots and drew a coverlet over him. “Thank you, little brother,” he said softly, and then he returned down the narrow stairs to the parlor. Old Lucy, Barbara's servant, was just bringing in the meal to the small dining room off the parlor. He greeted her warmly, and she gave him an equally warm welcome.
“You must be starving,” Barbara said. “Sit down. How long have you been back in England?”
“I came with my cousin,” Charlie told her, helping himself to both trout and beef.
“The children?”
“In the north,” was all he said. “Safe.”
“You should hove remained with them until this was all over and settled,” she said. “Why didn't the king understand that there would be no great popular rising for him?”
“No one told him,” Charlie answered her, “and I am not certain that the lines of communication were even open between the English royalists and the Scottish lords. He might have succeeded but that they insisted upon resting their troops in Worcester. He wanted to go right for London.”
“It's too soon,” Barbara Carver said wisely. “Right now we are all frightened. In time we will be sick of these Puritans, but not quite yet.”
“How have you survived?” he inquired.
“The Puritans are not as moral as they pretend to be. I keep my faith to myself, of course, but the local gentleman in charge of the district visits me. I make no difficulties, nor do I raise the specter of impropriety, and so Squire Randall's widow is left in peace out on her hillside,” Barbara told him.
“Is there any danger of this man coming soon?” Charlie asked.
“He's not a soldier. It's unlikely he was involved in the battle at Worcester, but he will go there in the next day or two to be seen and to take part in the executions that will follow. I do not expect to see him until all is settled. Several weeks, probably.”
They ate, and they drank as they had so many times in the past. And when they had finished, without a word, they went upstairs.
“Let me check your brother first,” she whispered to him. She entered her second bedroom and, going over to Patrick, put a hand on his forehead. “He has a slight fever,” she said. “It was to be expected. I had best get some watered wine for him.”
“Later,” Charlie said, drawing her out into the little hallway and into her own bedroom. He enfolded her into his arms and kissed her deeply, his tongue pushing between her lips to fence with her tongue. His hands began to unlace her gown in swift and expert fashion.
Barbara laughed and pulled away from him. “Your boots, my lord! I don't intend to have my fine linens muddied.” She pushed him back into a chair, and kneeling down, she pulled the boots from his feet, and then his stockings, exclaiming as she did, “Whew! How long have you been wearing those, Charlie Stuart?”
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