The Queen's Gambit (The Wonderland Series: Book 4) Read online

  “Of course. And how is your friend this morning?”

  “A little better, I think.” Perhaps Hugo was being too optimistic, but at least Brad wasn’t delirious anymore.

  “I’m that glad to hear that he’s on the mend. That woman…,” Mistress Lacey said, pursing her lips in disapproval. “Wouldn’t trust her with a dog, much less an injured man.”

  “Got something of a reputation, does she?” Hugo asked, curious about Widow Starkey.

  “Oh, aye. Drove that poor lad to drink, she did. Had to marry her because she was in the family way, but who fathered that babe is anybody’s guess. ‘Twas six months ago now that it happened. Someone made a comment about Judith Starkey’s loose ways in the tavern. Didn’t say nothing that wasn’t true, mind you, but Harry felt he had to defend that trollop of a wife. A fight broke out. It would have all blown over after a few minutes of high spirits, but Harry Starkey was too drunk to keep upright when hit, and bashed his head on the corner of the mantel as he went down. Dead as a doornail within minutes, he was. And now, that slattern is the parish’s responsibility the good vicar says. Can’t manage the farm by herself. Well, she should just give it back to Harry’s kin and go back where she came from.” Mistress Lacey attacked the dough with renewed vigor, which was obviously fueled by righteous indignation.

  “Where had she come from?” Hugo asked as he held out his bowl for another helping of porridge.

  “Oh, I don’t rightly know, and neither does anyone else hereabouts. Just showed up one day. Said she was searching for work. Not a month later she’d wed our Harry. He were a good sort, Harry was, until she came along.”

  “Thank you for breakfast, Mistress Lacey,” Hugo said as he pushed his bowl away. He didn’t care to hear anything more about Judith Starkey. She was clearly not liked in this town, and he felt pity for her. Life was hard enough when you had family and friends, but when you were a friendless young woman who’d been branded a whore living in a town full of hostile inhabitants, it was that much harder. Perhaps her reputation was well-deserved, but it didn’t matter. He had more important things to deal with, and Widow Starkey wasn’t one of them. Whatever happened to her was out of his hands.

  Hugo experimentally stuck a finger into the water to check its temperature. It was warm enough, so he poured the water into a pitcher and grabbed a basin and a towel on his way upstairs.

  “Mistress Lacey, would you mind bringing some food for Bradford in about fifteen minutes, say?” Hugo asked.

  “Not at all, Master Tully, not at all,” the woman replied as she deftly fashioned lumps of dough into loaves.

  Brad was awake when Hugo came upstairs with the water. The smell in the room was still overpowering, but beneath the stench of the wound, was the smell of a man who hadn’t washed in weeks.

  “I’m going to give you a bath,” Hugo announced as he went about pulling the shirt over Brad’s head. “You stink.”

  Brad pulled a face. “I do stink, but the thought of you bathing me stinks even more.”

  “Nonsense.” Hugo wet a towel and rubbed it on a cake of soap before beginning to apply it to Brad’s neck and chest. He methodically moved down scrubbing everything except the area of the wound. It was difficult to wash the soap off without wetting the bed linens, but the result was well worth it. Brad was clean, but the water in the basin was nearly black. Hugo tossed the contents out the window and went back to the kitchen to get clean water. Mistress Lacey had already put the loaves in the oven and was preparing a tray for Brad.

  “Is he decent then?” she asked as she prepared to deliver the food.

  “Just five more minutes, Mistress,” Hugo replied as he went back to finish his task. He carefully moved Brad over to the side of the bed, suspending his head over the floor. It wasn’t a comfortable position, but made it possible for Hugo to wash Brad’s hair and rinse it without soaking the bed.

  “Thank you, old friend. I feel so much better,” Brad said as Hugo helped him with the shirt.

  “Mistress Lacey will be here directly with your breakfast. You need to eat.”

  “Hugo, I meant what I said. Please, take me home.”

  “You can’t sit a horse, old man,” Hugo replied as he took a peek under the dressing and judged it to be adequate for another hour.

  “I have some money. Perhaps you can buy a cart of some sort.”

  “You had money,” Hugo corrected him. “The good widow relieved you of it some time ago, but perhaps buying a cart is not a bad idea. Are you sure you’re up to traveling? It will take us the best part of a day to get back to Cranley, and it won’t be a luxurious ride.”

  “You won’t hear a word of complaint from me,” Brad promised.

  “All right. Let me see what I can find,” Hugo promised as he held the door open for Mistress Lacey, who was bringing broth, bread, and a bowl of porridge for the patient.

  Chapter 18

  By midmorning Hugo had managed to procure a rickety cart, the only conveyance he could afford. His purse was now depressingly empty, which made him doubly thankful for the generosity of the vicar who bid Mistress Lacey to provide two old blankets and a pillow for Brad to rest his head on, and a parcel of food. Hugo made the cart as comfortable as possible before asking Vicar Creswell to help him lift Brad onto his makeshift bed. Brad could barely walk, much less climb into the wagon. His condition had vastly improved since Hugo found him at Widow Starkey’s farm, but that wasn’t saying much.

  Brad was still flushed with fever, and his thigh was swollen and putrid with infection. The only thing that would truly help at this stage was a dose of antibiotics, but, of course, penicillin would not be invented for centuries to come. The natural antibacterial agents in honey and garlic could only do so much against an infection which had been allowed to fester for days. Brad would survive the ride back to Cranley, but Hugo had no idea what to expect beyond that. He tucked in the blankets around Brad to keep him warm, but reclaimed his cloak. He couldn’t ride all day without it. He was chilled to the bone despite being constantly in motion.

  “Vicar, Mistress Lacey, thank you for your kindness,” Hugo said as he shook the vicar’s hand. “I don’t know what I would have done had you not welcomed us into your home.”

  “I have no doubt you would have found a solution, Master Tully. You appear to be a very resourceful man. Bradford is lucky to have such a devoted companion. I do hope he recovers. I will pray for him,” the vicar added piously.

  Vicar Creswell walked around to the side of the wagon and shook Brad’s hand before Hugo pulled away. “Go with God,” he called out after them.

  “Are you all right back there?” Hugo asked as the wagon rattled down a rutted track through the outskirts of Reading. The impenetrable fog of the day before had lifted, and the sky was clear and bright, but the cold December air was still bitter.

  “I am more than all right; I am utterly blessed,” Brad replied, the smile evident in his tone.

  “Really? I had no idea that getting wounded and being left to starve would have such a heartening effect on your disposition,” Hugo remarked, amazed by Brad’s good spirits. Most people would feel bitter and angry after such an ordeal, but Brad seemed unusually light of spirit this morning.

  “A few days ago, I was sure that I would die in that loft, Hugo, and be left there to rot like those two Irish soldiers. I’ve seen death before, of course, but never this close. I had to share a room with two putrefying corpses for days, acutely aware that it was just a matter of time until I joined them in death. I’d never felt as alone or devoid of hope as I did then. I tried praying, but somehow the words seemed hollow, as if no one was listening — no one at all,” Brad confided. He’d always been a pious man, a man who believed in the power of prayer. It wasn’t just a balm for the soul to Brad; it was a direct line to God, a two-way conversation where the other participant was often silent, but sympathetic and eager to help nonetheless.

  “I knew I was dying,” Brad continued, “and would have welc
omed death had I been offered even a glimpse of Beth and the children one more time, but I knew that was not to be. Even the notion of being buried at home seemed like a paradise I couldn’t hope to attain. I’d be buried in a strange place with no one to mourn me or even carve my name into the cross. Beth would never know what had happened to me; would not even know where I was buried. And then, I heard your voice. I thought an angel was calling to me.”

  “Well, I’ve been called many things before, but this is definitely a first,” Hugo replied with a grin. He tried to keep the mood light, but he understood Brad’s anguish all too well. Neve had expressed a similar sentiment after being locked up in Newgate, alone and without hope, torn from him without so much as a word of warning. Dying with the knowledge that Hugo would never know what became of her and their baby made the prospect that much more painful, more senseless.

  “Don’t ridicule me, old friend. I know I may still die, but knowing that I will see my family before I do, and will be buried in a place where my wife and children can visit my grave and pray for me gives me peace of mind. I know you can understand that.”

  “Yes, of course I can.” Dying was never desirable, but there were different kinds of death, and dying in your own bed with your loved ones around you was likely the best death anyone could ask for. There were some who believed that dying on a battlefield fighting for a cause was an honorable end, and perhaps it was, but having come close to death only a few years ago when he was shot in Paris, Hugo could understand Brad’s heartfelt desire to be with his family. Having Neve near, and holding Valentine as she fell asleep, was the best medicine Hugo could have asked for, so perhaps Brad’s family would be the cure that tipped the scale in favor of life.

  “Try to sleep, Brad. We have a ways to go, and you need your rest.”

  “I suppose I should,” Brad replied, his voice thick with emotion, “but I keep thinking that this might be my last glimpse of the sky. I don’t want to miss a moment, Hugo, in case I am no longer here tomorrow. I’d rather talk, if you don’t mind.”

  “When have I ever minded talking to you?” Hugo replied, stunned by Brad’s revelation. Was he really about to lose his closest friend? Brad had followed his conscience, did what he felt was the only thing to do under the threat of invasion by a foreign, Protestant king, but now that it was all over, his sacrifice seemed so pointless. William’s ascent to the throne was inevitable, but, of course, Brad had no way of knowing that. How different life would be if everyone had the same knowledge he’d been gifted through Neve, Hugo mused.

  “Hugo, how did you come to be back in England at just the right time? If James II is deposed by William, then you will be pardoned,” Brad theorized. “You couldn’t have known what was about to happen.”

  Hugo mulled the question over for a moment, unsure of what to tell Brad. Part of him wanted to tell Brad the truth, but despite their friendship, Brad was still mired in superstition, as he himself had been before his eyes were so forcefully opened by Neve. Besides, Hugo didn’t want to say anything which might endanger Neve. Any hint of witchcraft could result in Neve’s imprisonment and death, and traveling through time was about as “witchy” as one could get — in any century.

  “Oh, you did know,” Brad concluded from Hugo’s silence. “She foresaw it, didn’t she, your wife? I keep forgetting she is a seer.”

  “Yes,” Hugo said simply.

  “What else did she say? She has quite a gift, Neve. She’s like the Oracle of Delphi,” Brad said, his voice trembling with awe.

  “All oracles are fallible,” Hugo replied, reluctant to share what he knew with Brad.

  “Come, Hugo. I know she foretold something. You can trust me; you know that.” Brad suddenly sounded offended, instinctively sensing that Hugo was holding something back. “I wouldn’t betray Neve any more than I would betray you.”

  “She foresaw that there will never be another Stuart king on the throne of England, or another Catholic for that matter.” The words were simple enough when spoken out loud, but they summarized the demise of all hopes and ambitions that Hugo and Brad had harbored and fought for. The dream of being able to practice their religion openly during their lifetime came abruptly to an end, all hope extinguished through the certain knowledge of the future to come.

  “Poppycock,” Brad replied angrily. “This invasion won’t last. James will rally his forces and drive William from the shores of England. This is a temporary setback, nothing more. Perhaps Neve misinterpreted what she saw. You just said yourself that no oracle is infallible. We haven’t seen the last of the Stuart kings, I tell you, especially now that there is finally a male heir.” Brad sounded unusually defensive, his attitude full of bluster he clearly didn’t feel.

  “Tell me what happened to you, Brad,” Hugo suggested in an effort to change the subject. Talking about the future left him feeling unsettled.

  Hugo heard Brad’s sigh as he shifted his weight to make himself more comfortable on the hard bed of the wagon. The road was a bit smoother now they had left Reading behind, so the going was easier. They’d passed a farmer a few minutes back, but otherwise, they were alone. Even the livestock were indoors, the winter grass not suitable for grazing. Hugo hoped Brad was warm enough under his blankets. He pulled the cloak closer around his body. When traveling on horseback, he had the warmth of the animal to dispel some of the chill, but now that he was sitting on the bench of the wagon, he was numb with cold, his fingers stiff on the reins.

  “I was really happy when the little prince was born,” Brad began, his voice wistful. “It seemed a good omen of things to come. Finally, the succession was assured, and we Catholics had some hope of a better future. I didn’t think that change would come overnight, but with a Catholic prince as next in line, I hoped that the attitude toward Catholics might begin to soften,” Brad confided, his voice strangely disembodied as he spoke.

  “I was feeling hopeful all through the summer, until rumors began to circulate. I confess, I found it hard to believe that a foreign prince would be preferable to an Englishman, one who had a legitimate claim on the throne and had provided an heir, but the rumors grew more persistent. A part of me still hoped that common sense would prevail and the invitation to William of Orange would be revoked, but as you know, that wasn’t the case.”

  “So, you joined James’s army?”

  “I felt it my duty, Hugo. I know that I’m only one man, and not a very good fighter at that, but if there were more like me who felt that they should volunteer, perhaps the tide could be turned.”

  “What was it like at Salisbury?” Hugo asked. He already knew the answer from reading historical accounts, but wanted to hear it from Brad, who had been there to witness the events in person.

  “It was awful, actually. James’s troops were well-armed but reluctant to fight; the general feeling being that their cause was doomed and not worth risking life and limb for. There were even some officers who voiced their support for William of Orange, utterly unafraid of being taken up on a charge of treason,” Brad related, still unable to believe what he’d seen and heard.

  “And James? Did you see him?” Hugo asked, curious if the accounts had been accurate.

  “His Majesty seemed to be experiencing some sort of crisis of faith. He worked himself up into such a state that his nose began to bleed profusely, which he took to be a bad omen — a sign from God that he should order his troops to retreat. He appeared to be looking for signs rather than trying to inspire his men and focusing on strategy.”

  Brad sounded incredulous, still amazed by the all-too-human weakness he’d witnessed behind the mask of the ruler he’d admired.

  “There were some who said that James II actually referred to the wind which helped William cross the sea as a “Protestant wind.” Does wind have religious beliefs now?” Brad asked with undisguised disgust.

  “Then what happened?”

  “The Earl of Feversham proposed retreat. His Majesty might have dismissed the suggestion had Lord C
hurchill of Eyemouth not deserted to William the very next day, soon to be followed by the king’s own daughter Anne. He lost heart after that, and fled to London.”

  “How did you come to be in Reading?” Hugo asked, still trying to piece together what bit of circumstance led Brad to Reading on the day of the battle.

  “Not being an officer, I had no real idea of what was going on. There was confusion and chaos, and many speculated that the king feared execution and was using his negotiations with William as a means of stalling for time while he planned his escape to France. James sent a detachment of Irish troops into Reading to engage the Dutch, who’d been summoned by the residents for protection. I wasn’t meant to be there at all, not being part of the Irish Brigade, but was asked to deliver a message. I could hardly refuse, could I?” Brad asked, his voice bitter with defeat.

  “I had no idea where I was going or how to find the Captain of the Guard to whom the missive was addressed. There was fighting in the street, the menfolk of Reading firing at the soldiers from upper-story windows and from behind corners and walls. The streets were overrun by the Dutch. The Irish soldiers sought cover in doorways and behind trees as they returned fire, but they were grossly outnumbered. My horse was shot out from under me before I had the sense to dismount and get out of the street,” Brad confided. His moment of inaction still rankled, but Brad was no trained soldier, which made it all the more strange that he had been chosen to deliver a message. Unless he volunteered.

  “I tried to get out of the way and take refuge in a livery stable,” Brad continued, “but there was a Dutch soldier directly in my path. I suppose he might have taken me for one of the inhabitants of Reading and left me be had I not engaged him. He was a skilled swordsman and had me disarmed and on my back in moments. He went to finish me off, but I rolled out of his way and his sword struck my thigh instead of my chest. He could have easily killed me, but just left me to bleed as something else drew his attention. I crawled behind a hedge and stayed there until the end of the battle. I was bleeding profusely and must have lost consciousness, because when I awoke, I was in that loft with the Irish soldiers.”