The Passage (17 page)

Hugo poked up the fire and threw on another log, watching the shifting shadows of the leaping flames cast a golden glow on Neve’s face.  She was curled up in bed, the coverlet all the way up to her chin, her fair hair fanned on the lumpy pillow.  The inn had only one private room left, the only other accommodation available in public rooms where travelers shared a bed with strangers, packed together like mackerel in a barrel.  The men had no problem sleeping six to a bed, since it was still warmer and softer than bedding down in the stables.  Even Jem chose to sleep in the communal bed rather than make up a pallet in the private room, eager for the warmth and camaraderie of his companions. 

The bed was hardly big enough for two people, so Hugo tried to make himself comfortable on the hard wooden chair, which squeaked pitifully every time he so much as shifted his weight. It had to be past midnight since the inn had grown quiet about two hours ago.  The last patrons had departed, and the owners quickly tidied up and went to seek their own bed, knowing that they had a limited amount of time to rest before they got up at dawn and their daily routine began anew.  The inn was shabby but clean, and the food had been palatable, which is more than he could say for many places he’d stayed at.  The innkeeper and his wife did their best, and it showed.  He’d have to give them an extra coin come morning, just to show his appreciation. 

Hugo was physically tired, but couldn’t sleep, partly due to discomfort and partly to the ghosts that seemed to surround him; those of the dead and the living.  He felt his father’s presence, the old man staring at him with contempt, disgusted that he had allowed an insipid girl to prevent him from fulfilling his duty and producing an heir for Everly. 

“Have I taught you nothing, boy?” his father’s voice demanded in his head.  “Your marriage was annulled, so according to the church you were never married.  The record of your nuptials has been expunged, just as you have been expunged from your wife’s heart.  You’ve wasted twelve years on self-pity and righteous recriminations.  Do your duty!” his father roared.

“What of my conscience, Father?” Hugo demanded of the angry ghost.

“To hell with your conscience!  You are not the first or the last to have to bargain with yourself and the Almighty.  He has more important things to concern himself with than one failed marriage.  Your wife is dead to you, so find another. And what is this plot you’ve got yourself involved in?  You’ll end up with your head on a spike for your pains.  What difference does it make who sits on the throne as long as we prosper?  Put your idealism aside, learn to play the game, and produce a boy for God’s sake.”

Hugo sat up straighter in his chair, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames, his back rigid as the chair let out a moan of protest.  He hated to admit it, but his father was right to a degree.  Catherine was dead to him, if not physically dead.  All these years he’d lived with the memory of a precious young girl, but had she really been what he believed her to be or a product of his own over-romanticized imagination? 

Catherine loved the idea of courtly love.  She devoured his romantic declarations and kept the poems he’d written her under her pillow.  She loved legends, casting herself as Guinevere and him her devoted knight, but what had she known of real love?  She had been frightened of his ardor, shocked by the physical love she’d known nothing about.  He’d been too young and foolish to realize that Catherine had been completely unprepared for the force of his desire, and he’d terrified her with his emotional and physical demands.  He’d allowed himself to believe that the look he saw on her face as Lord Guilford led her away was one of regret, when in truth, it was likely relief.  A life with him was too frightening, too intimate. 

Hugo knew Catherine’s husband well.  The Duke spent most of his time at Court, leaving his wife and children at home in the country.  He only brought them to town on special occasions such as a Christmas pageant or the coronation of the new king.  He’d enjoyed several affairs with other men’s wives and rarely went home to his own, but perhaps that’s a life Catherine had wanted since her husband demanded very little of her, especially now that she had produced several heirs and was past her prime.

And what had possessed him to talk to Neve Ashley of his father and Catherine, the two people who still haunted him on a daily basis?  Why did he feel the need to confide in her when he’d kept his regrets to himself for so long?  And why was he suddenly unsure of his path, a path he’d chosen a long time ago and had followed without deviation, steadfast in his moral conviction and bound by duty?

“I can feel you brooding from across the room,” Neve suddenly said, raising her head from the pillow.  “Come to bed.”

“I didn’t wish to inconvenience you,” Hugo replied, desperately wanting to just lie down next to her and escape his unpleasant thoughts. 

“You inconvenienced me by forcing me to accompany you.  “Now, lie down and go to sleep.  You are driving me crazy with your fidgeting.”

“You really are a most perplexing woman, you know that?” Hugo asked as he began to pull off his boots.  Neve had been irate to find him holding her only that morning, but now she was inviting him into her bed, a bed that was a third in size of the one they’d shared.  Surely she knew that some physical contact would ensue.

“So I’ve been told,” Neve replied and gave him an impish smile before snuggling under the covers again.  Hugo hastily undressed and got into bed, stretching out next to Neve and sighing with relief.  He hadn’t realized how much his back ached until now.  He was no longer used to spending days in the saddle the way he had in his youth.

“Good night, Mistress Ashley,” he whispered.

“Hmm.”  Neve was already asleep, her breathing even and her mouth partially open.  She moaned softly in her sleep and rolled onto her back, her face illuminated by the feeble light of the fire.  Hugo tried not to stare, but couldn’t help himself.  When awake, she looked guarded and at times frightened, but now she looked like a little girl, trusting and sweet, and heartbreakingly defenseless.  He’d refrained from asking her too many questions, seeing her stiffen every time he so much as brought up her past, so he left her alone in an effort to build trust.  Sooner or later people revealed everything he needed to know on their own, once they felt less threatened, but he couldn’t figure this woman out. 

She said she came from London, which might be true, but her appearance and demeanor did not fit into any category he could think of.  She was clearly educated and cultured, but she didn’t have the manners or bearing of a gentlewoman.  She moved and spoke freely, meeting his gaze head on with no wiles or attempt at being coy.  Perhaps that’s why she never married; she’d intimidate any prospective husband with her brazen manner and speech.  However, Neve Ashley clearly didn’t come from the lower orders either.  Her hands were soft and smooth, her complexion unblemished, and her teeth straight and white when she smiled that charming smile of hers.  This was not a woman who’d known hunger or disease, nor had she ever been subjected to hard physical work. 

Perhaps she was the daughter of some wealthy merchant or scholar, one who’d had the financial freedom and unconventional enough thinking to educate a girl and use her talents in his shop, for lack of a son.  That could explain the absence of a husband as well.  She might have had to care for her father and help him in his business, making her unable to marry at the proper age.  What was her age? Hugo wondered, looking at Neve more closely.  She had to be past twenty, but he couldn’t tell by how much.  Her gaze was all too knowing for a young maid, but her physical appearance spoke of one much younger than thirty.  Most women of his acquaintance, even those who enjoyed wealth and privilege, began to lose their bloom shortly after marriage.  Numerous pregnancies, births, and the physical demands of life took their toll, making them appear older than they really were.  Even Jane, who’d only had one child, looked like a woman in her middle years when she was still relatively young. 

Hugo ran his hand through his hair, more puzzled than ever.  He’d spent the past few days trying to work out this conundrum, but he was no closer to an answer than before.  Who was this woman and where had she come from?  Was he endangering himself by his association with her, and what should he do with her in the future? 

These questions remained unanswered as his mind finally quieted down and his lids began to grow heavy as sleep claimed him at last.  He dreamed that he was walking through a dark forest, the sky obscured by heavy tree limbs that intertwined over his head and blocked all light from the narrow track.  He thought he was getting closer to the edge of the forest, but in fact, he was pushing deeper and deeper into the dense growth, the track now all but invisible and the light completely gone.  He heard the sounds of forest creatures and the screeching of owls as night settled, leaving him lost and frustrated.  Every crack of a branch or cry of a fox sounded ominous as he sank against a tree trunk and looked up at the invisible heavens, searching for answers which never came. 

Hugo woke up with a start, glad to find himself in the cold, dark room of the inn.  Neve still slept peacefully, and he was glad of that as he rose to his feet and stretched out, easing the kinks in his back.  The remnants of the dream swirled in his head, making him uneasy about the coming months.  Was he walking into something dark and inescapable?  Was Neve right in her prediction of his impending doom?

Hugo splashed some cold water on his face and took a sip of ale left over in the cup from the night before.  It tasted bitter on his tongue, and he spat it out into the cold hearth.  He was in a foul mood, suddenly unsure of just about everything.

I followed Hugo out of the inn and reluctantly mounted my horse, knowing full well that I would be spending another day in the saddle.  My limbs still ached, but a good night’s sleep helped.  I felt somewhat restored in body and mind.  The weather had changed during the night, the bitter cold of the day before replaced by a mild morning, much more appropriate to March.  I could almost smell spring in the air as I turned my face to the sky, basking in the weak sunshine.

The village was already awake, people going about their business, calling out greetings and exchanging bits of news and gossip, and thin, dirty children playing tag or glancing balefully at the others as they were forced to help their parents with chores.  The dooryard of the inn was busy, travelers preparing to leave, and the landlord trying to extract the last bit of coin before parting with his guests by offering to sell them some food for the journey, or a hot breakfast porridge being ladled out by his wife in the dining room.  Hugo had ordered breakfast to be brought up, so I enjoyed some fresh bread and butter drizzled with honey and a cup of milk, grateful not to have to drink more bitter ale.  Jem had come up to see if I was ready while I was eating, so I shared some of my bounty with him, despite the fact that he’d already had his breakfast downstairs. 

“I like honey,” Jem stated as he licked his fingers and peered at the plate to see if any honey had oozed from the bread and could still be licked off.  “I like it in porridge too, but there was none to be had, or even a dollop of butter,” Jem complained.  “Peter says that Mr. Finch is rich, richer than some dukes and lords even, so mayhap his kitchen will be a welcoming place,” Jem mused with a smile as he gave up on the honey and finished the last of my milk.  “Could be they’ll have some sweetmeats or even syllabub.”  He gave me a dreamy look as I fastened my cloak and pulled the linen cap over my curls.  It wasn’t much, but it kept me warmer and prevented my hair from constantly being blown into my face. 

“Do you like syllabub?” Jem asked as we made our way down the narrow stairs.  I’d never had it, but from what I’d heard of it thought it sounded less than appetizing. 

“No, I don’t care for syllabub, but I do like fresh scones with clotted cream and hot-cross buns.”

“Oh, I like those too,” Jem replied dreamily.  “I’m still hungry,” he added as an afterthought and ran toward his own mule which was already waiting for him, its expression one of doleful compliance, much like Hugo’s men.  Judging from the glazed eyes and downturned mouths, they’d a night to remember and were now nursing legendary hangovers, exacerbated by the noise in the yard and the screeching voice of the innkeeper’s wife as she called out to her husband.  I nearly laughed out loud as Archie rolled his eyes in exasperation and sighed, his head clearly beating like a drum.

“Oh, would ye stop that bellowing, woman?” he growled.  “He can hear ye, being only a foot away. He’s just ignoring ye in the hope that ye’ll finally shut yer trap.”

The innkeeper’s wife opened her mouth to reply, and I had to admit that I was curious to see what she would say since the expression on her face was a most amusing one, but Hugo strolled out of the inn at just that moment and she curtsied instead, lost her balance and landed in a heap of manure, which sent the men into uproarious laughter.

“Serves ye right, ye wee besom,” Arnold called out, “for not putting any butter or even milk into the porridge.  It was dry as dust and twice as foul.”

“Enough of that, lads,” Hugo said quietly as he mounted his horse.  He looked sullen this morning, no doubt exhausted after his broken night.  After the unexpected intimacy of the night at Sir Benedict’s house, I hadn’t been prepared to share the narrow bed with him, knowing that we’d spend the night in each other’s arms, not out of passion, but out of necessity, but I’d felt sorry for him, seeing how uncomfortable he was.  Thankfully, he’d kept to his side of the bed and was gone before I even woke up, allowing me some privacy to take care of my more personal needs. 

I had seen the occasional glimmer of interest and desire in his eyes and didn’t want to do anything to encourage him.  I’d play his mistress when necessary, but that was all.  I had to admit that pretending hadn’t been that hard at Lord Benedict’s house.  Hugo easily took on the role of the lover, gazing at me with undisguised affection and smiling indulgently whenever I spoke or flirted with our host.  He brushed my hand a few times and put his hand on my lower back when escorting me from the room, leaving our host in no doubt as to what our relationship was. 

I, myself, found it easy to respond.  All that was expected of me were a few coy looks and the occasional blush, which Hugo seemed to bring to my cheeks without even trying.  He was a handsome man and reminded me greatly of Max, but the resemblance stopped at the physical.  They were as different as two men could be.  Max was easygoing and full of that self-deprecating humor which made him so likable.  Hugo did not lack for humor, but his was of a different kind, directed more at the world around him and the people in it rather than at himself.  I suspected that Max would always choose self-preservation over any kind of possible danger, but Hugo wasn’t afraid for himself.  He was a man of principle; one who would fight for what he believed in, possibly to the death.  I’d told him what would happen, but even the possibility of execution did not deter him.  How would I feel, knowing that I might have to walk up to the scaffold and lay my head on the block, knowing that within moments it would be severed from my body?  And that’s if I was lucky. 

I’d read an account of Monmouth’s execution, and it made me sick to my stomach.  The executioner had been Jack Ketch, a man known for his inability to carry out the task at hand whether due to incompetence or drink.  Although he’d been handsomely paid to make a clean job of it, Ketch hacked at Monmouth six times, leaving him screaming in agony, but still very much alive.  As the crowd roared in disapproval, Ketch threw down his axe and challenged anyone who thought they could do better to come up and finish the job.  There were no volunteers, so he was ordered to continue.  It took Ketch two more blows to finally kill Monmouth, but he failed to sever the head and had to detach it from the corpse with a butcher’s knife, spraying the crowd with a shower of blood and leaving his audience outraged. 

My stomach heaved at the thought of something equally horrific befalling Hugo.  No man, no matter the crime, deserved such a gruesome death.  I’d always thought that beheading was relatively humane as compared to hanging, but after reading the account, I had my doubts.  I snuck a peek at Hugo as he rode silently next to me, lost in his own thoughts.  What would happen to him in the next few months? I wondered.  Would he truly disappear without a trace or would it only be the record of what happened that vanished?

I’d known Hugo for only about a week, but that was enough to realize that he would not abandon his ideals.  He believed this was worth fighting for, so the only chance of salvation rested in him not being labeled a traitor, which was unlikely since he openly solicited support for the Duke of Monmouth.  I sighed and turned to Hugo, needing to hear his voice instead of my own. 

“So, where are we going today, my lord?” I asked, putting emphasis on ‘my lord’ in a subconscious attempt to annoy him. 

“We will be visiting the home of one Josiah Finch,” Hugo replied.  I didn’t miss the tensing of the jaw or the grim set of his mouth as he said this, wondering what it was about Josiah Finch that literally set his teeth on edge.

“Is he a supporter of Monmouth?” I asked, hoping Hugo would be a little more forthcoming.

“Mr. Finch is not a supporter of anyone, per se.  He’s loyal to his king and country, but he would be equally loyal to Monmouth if he took the throne.  Finch’s main interest is his own gain.”

“So, why are you soliciting him in particular?”

“Mr. Finch is as rich as Croesus, but covets a title to go with his wealth.  Monmouth can grant him one should he become king,” Hugo explained, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance.

“Is it money that Monmouth is after?” I still didn’t quite understand how this worked.  It wasn’t just about financial contribution, I knew that.  There was much more at stake.

“An army needs funds.  The men must be armed, housed, fed, and paid.  Most men can’t afford to fight for free; not when they have families to feed.  Josiah Finch doesn’t have much political clout, being hardly more than a glorified tradesman, but he is able to finance Monmouth’s venture, should he choose to.  He has several gunsmiths on his estate who could produce a goodly amount of flintlock muskets within the next few months, should Finch decide to support the cause.”

I stared at Hugo, uncomprehending.  He wanted Monmouth’s rebellion to fail, yet he was courting a man who would supply Monmouth with arms and the funds to support an army.  Would that not give Monmouth a greater chance of victory?  I asked Hugo as much, and he turned his dark eyes on me, smiling at my naiveté.

“Your question makes perfect sense, of course, but you must realize that the Duke of Monmouth is no fool.  He wishes to be a king, not a martyr.  He will not attempt a rebellion unless he has the necessary manpower and arms to have a fair chance of success.  Therefore, he must believe that he will have what he needs once he lands in England.  No amount of muskets Finch can provide can stand up to the might of the Royal Army,” Hugo explained patiently.

“I see,” I mumbled, feeling sorry for poor Monmouth.  I knew that the man wanted to usurp the throne and overthrow the rightful king, but I couldn’t help but pity him.  I knew his fate, and it was awful.  Why couldn’t he be content with the life he had?  What was it about the throne that held such allure that men were willing to risk everything to attain it?  Was it worth his life?  I supposed so.  He certainly wouldn’t be the first person to risk everything to gain the throne of England.  He believed he had a fair chance of success and had to make his play, since this might be his last opportunity to capitalize on the public’s support.

“Would this be Monmouth’s first open rebellion?” I asked.  I vaguely recalled reading something about a previous attempt, but couldn’t remember the details.

Hugo glanced at me, a gleam of suspicion in his eyes.  I shouldn’t have asked that.  Had there been a previous attempt, I would have known about it, as would most of the country.  I was showing my ignorance, but Hugo’s face relaxed as his eyes slid away from mine.  I was a mere woman, so politics would be way above my head in his estimation.  I might have heard something, but not understood or remembered.  I gave Hugo a weak smile, hoping that he would be thinking just that.

“There was an attempt in 1683 dubbed the Rye House Plot,” he replied.  “I don’t believe that Monmouth was personally involved in the plotting of the details, but the objective was to put him on the throne.   The plot was devised by a group of fervent supporters who hoped to assassinate both Charles II and his brother on their way to London from the horse races at Newmarket.”  Hugo gave me a questioning look; no doubt wondering if that rang any bells.

“Oh yes, of course, I recall hearing about that, but I don’t remember the details,” I chimed in, hoping to put him off the scent.

“The plot failed,” Hugo said flatly.  “There was a fire in Newmarket about a week before and the races were canceled, so the king and his brother came back to London early.  It did come to light, however, and the plotters were executed.”

I nodded gravely, as if remembering the executions and changed the subject.  I was tired of talking about Monmouth.

“Lord Everly, what do you do when you are not inciting rebellion?” I asked lightly, hoping to put him in a better mood. 

Hugo glanced at me and chuckled, his eyes suddenly twinkling with humor.  “Inciting rebellion is a full-time occupation,” he said with an impish grin, “and I think you might call me Hugo considering that you’ve spent two nights in my bed.”

“I believe the bed in question was actually mine, but all right, Hugo it is.  I’m not one to stand on ceremony, and you didn’t answer my question.”

“I enjoy other pursuits,” Hugo answered defensively.

“Such as?”

“Well, there’s my estate, of course.  That requires a fair amount of time.  I have an estate agent, but I’m deeply involved in the day-to-day running of things, plus I have a responsibility to my tenants.  Unfortunately, since I don’t have a wife, I have to involve myself in things that are not altogether my domain.”

“Like what?” I asked, curious as to what he thought a woman’s domain was.

“The lady of the manor usually visits the tenants, particularly ones who are old and infirm, ill, or with newborn or numerous children.  She sees to the well-being of the tenants, and when needed, offers whatever help she’s able to.  My father believed that a landlord holds the position of a parent to the tenants and they, in turn, reward him with loyalty and hard work.  My mother was very involved with the women on our estate, and they esteemed her.  Jane has been visiting the womenfolk since she’s been back, and that has been a great help.  I never know what to say to the women, especially when it comes to the children.  It’s customary to visit a tenant when they have a new baby.  Truthfully, they all look the same to me,” Hugo confided with a shrug.

“And what do you do for pleasure?”  I hadn’t meant to sound flirtatious, but that’s the way it came out, and my tone wasn’t lost on Hugo.

“Are you asking me if I have a mistress?” he countered.

“No, I’m not.  I was simply asking what you enjoy doing.”  I knew I sounded a little prickly, but I didn’t want to give him the idea that I was applying for the position for real.