by Wade Ebeling
As it turned out, the arch-bishop was a far cleverer man than Charles had given him credit for. The Camaraderie had just suffered some heavy losses down in the breached tunnel system. Apparently, most of the initial strike force was lost when a trap in the long stairwell was set off, a series of steps began spinning in an alternating pattern, chewing up anyone unlucky enough to be walking on them at the time. After circumventing this trap and knocking a hole in a thick stone barricade, the secondary team then had the ceiling collapse upon them. It was believed that the whole complex had come down at once. Seventeen men dying had ended any future hope of getting into the lauded western school of the Builders. This catastrophe, when combined with the news about the escaped pair, particularly the part about his personal dinghy being stolen, sent the elderly arch-bishop into a frightful outburst. He cursed and slapped those closest to him.
Charles was smart enough to keep a fair bit of distance. This did not mean that he was spared, however. Truth be told, he probably took the brunt of the man’s foulness. The arch-bishop demanded that Charles and three Deacons, the same men that he had returned with, commandeer horses from the local population and make their way north to Norwich to head the pair off. This was not the clever part of the plan, though. What made the order malicious was the contingency put upon it. Charles was to return with the escapee’s hands, which would hold the branded proof of their affiliation, or he was not to return at all.
CHAPTER 5
~ Fishkill ~
Marcus and Catherine discussed their plan throughout the overcast, chilly evening on the river. Beyond curious, they opened the envelope given to Marcus by Master Grenaldt. First and foremost was a detailed map, which had them trekking into central Pensilvania to a frontier stronghold call Fort Shirley. Catherine alluded to their trip continuing past this point after the coming winter passed. Marcus, once again, chose not to pry. Other folded bundles of notes were tied off individually, labeled with small numbers going from one through three. He put those back into the large envelope for safekeeping. They obviously needed to be shown the proper amount of attention, and here, in a rocking boat amid failing light, was not the place.
Only a few other people were seen while navigating the river. Most of these encounters were farmers heading downstream in flatboats laden with late season harvests. Given that the moon and stars were hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds, only the lantern on the bow allowed them to continue making progress once darkness fell. Fighting the current, time passed quicker than the miles. The new couple had each other to keep the concerns of the world away and new outfits to keep the chill at bay. Lined with the same imbued felt as the clothing, Catherine had donned a white bonnet during the night. Marcus had the fur-lined hood of the great coat to flip up, happy to find that she had hidden small iron pins within the trimming, so that it could be controlled in a similar fashion to his old cloak.
By the time they approached a ferry crossing south of Norwich, the sun was already high enough to start melting the dewy, morning frost. Abandoning the dinghy in a lay-up, Marcus helped Catherine scale the slick embankment. They walked, hand in hand, toward the steeple in the distance, where the downtown area was just starting to come alive. Large-wheeled carts were being pulled slowly along by stout draft horses led by even stouter women. With a practiced choreography, the morning market started to take form within the town square.
“Hungry?” Marcus asked, rubbing his own stomach to show that Catherine need not ask the same. “It appears like that lady … over there by the fire … will cook anything we buy.”
“I suppose we have some time before the stables open. I don’t see anyone moving inside. There is no telling where we will stop next, whenever we do get going, or if there will be an inn there,” Catherine replied, in a round-a-bout way of showing agreement.
At a stall operated by a wizened elderly woman, they bought two large potatoes, a pepper and an onion. Three multi-colored eggs were procured from a young girl with missing front teeth and bright green eyes, which expertly masked her shrewd nature. A little further down, a smaller cart held a few variants of sausage and cuts of pork, so they overpaid for a chunk of fatback. After leaving the ingredients and a few crowns with the frumpy lady tending several Dutch ovens around a hot fire, they were directed to wait in a nearby gazebo. By the time their meal was delivered and devoured, the stable doors at the depot had opened.
It would take a few days just to reach the border with New York. Their route would take them due west through Wallingford and Danbury before reaching the mountain pass that would get them out of Connecticut and up to the hub town of Fishkill. Once they reached the Hudson river, means of travel were far more limited. The stablemaster assured them that the roads heading southwest to Reading, Pensilvania were now safe to traverse, but he would make no further proclamations regarding what lie beyond this. Any additional travel westward would mean going into the Endless Mountains, well inside the Six Nations. By the man’s tone, this was not something to take lightly.
They paid the station manager for passage to Fishkill. He, in return, gave them two pressed copped tokens in a show of good faith. These were to be revealed when the carriage arrived in New York, thus ensuring that the overland company would make the necessary arrangements to transport the pair wherever they wished, if further payment was made, of course. Only moments later, a team driven, brown over green carriage pulled up being manned by a hooded lanky man with sleep still encrusting his eyes. A young black porter emerged when called and proceeded to secure their backpack and suitcase behind the driver’s seat.
Marcus and Catherine clambered into the canvas covered carriage. The porter closed the thin door behind them and raised the window sash halfway. Once inside, they found rectangular down-fill pillows to sit upon, which would help lessen any bumps not fully absorbed by the elliptic springs. Without a hint of ceremony, the driver barked, “Hep!” at the horses. Obedient as ever, the tug chains of the working harness pulled taut and the team lurched forward in unison, hot breath snorting plumes of steam into the brisk morning air. The iron-clad wheels crunched dry, felled leaves as they rolled through a dazzling splash of fall colors.
Sitting across from one another, Marcus took every opportunity to marvel at the finer shapes of Catherine’s features. They talked here and there, but he found that the mystery surrounding her missing time was far too great to make simple small talk. He desperately wanted to ask about her past, even more so than their future. Sensing this, Catherine kept her answers short and her comments limited to how beautiful the countryside was or how dashing he looked in his new clothing. A firm but not wholly uncomfortable silence eventually fell.
With a lit pipe dangling from his mouth, Marcus opened the first of the note bundles given to him by Master Grenaldt. It was a complete catalogue of every book and scroll found within the Stone Sanctuary’s library. An Immense amount of work had gone into this list over the years, Marcus could guess at the timeframe by the slight fading of the ink on the earlier pages. They found this first note to be quite ominous since neither could imagine a possible reason for why the headmaster would want him to have it. Too frightened to open either of the remaining texts, Marcus tried to shake the feeling of looming dread that had suddenly taken root in his spine.
The fatigue caused by the last few days and the lack of sleep during the previous night soon had the road taking on a sense of dreary monotony. The rolling hills and endless stretches of flamboyant forest, beautiful as they were, became uninteresting to look at. Only the flash of movement caused by a squirrel ringing a tree or bird changing perches caught their full attention. Catherine and Marcus attempted to prop themselves into more comfortable positions while the carriage relentlessly jostled back and forth. Eventually, a thin veil of sleep draped across them.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“You will learn, one way or the other, to never lie to me!” Charles scoffed, tightening the thumb screw another full turn.
Tied fast to a roughhew
n post, the stablemaster sobbed. The porter and station master already lie dead, their bodies sprawled unflatteringly atop one another in an empty horse stall. At the behest of Charles, the Deacons shadowed away to secure the perimeter of the stable and attached corral. A long pull of paregoric followed their departure to ensure his full enjoyment of the moment. Upset about the lack of progress made during the dark night, which had forced them to squat under a large oak until morning broke, hurting the stablemaster had at least cheered Charles up.
The tortured man had already voiced everything he knew. This meant absolutely nothing to Charles. He knew they were mere hours behind the pair of Builders and that they had not changed clothes. He knew they were a couple, at least this was the impression given. He knew they intended to make for Reading, Pensilvania, as they had asked about the security of the trade routes between here and there. He knew the color of the carriage they rode in and the name of its driver. He knew his best chance to catch them was to intercept the buggy before it reached a travel hub in New York called Fishkill. Charles knew all, the information verified by switching tactics of interrogation, yet he still took the time to make this lowly laborer know his place in the world.
The stablemaster was weeping incoherent babble, bloody snot aerating from his nose. Quite proud of the fact that he had broken the doomed man, Charles retrieved the engraved thumbscrew then, quite casually, smashed an oil lantern on the floor before walking out. The fire spread quickly amongst the dry hay and wood. Within moments, the deceiving stablemaster was obscured by orange, flickering truth.
As Charles slid the heavy door shut behind him, he offered benignly, “God go with you.”
By the time Charles and his men made it to the outskirts of town, white smoke plumed high into the dry air, while a church bell rang a continual call to action. From a hillside several miles away, Charles caught his first glimpse of the carriage they pursued while it pulled away from the town of Wallingford. As motivating as it was to catch a glimpse of his quarry, what trailed them sank icy daggers into his soul. Two cargo transports and an additional passenger buggy had joined ranks to form an impromptu convoy. It was Impossible to tell from this range how many additional bodies that added to the equation. One thing was certain, sneaking up on them was no longer an option. Furthermore, with the convoy taking the most direct route west, there was no way to get in front of it to set a trap.
“Take your cloaks off before we reach that town,” Charles said through clenched teeth.
“Sir?” one of the Deacons dared ask in reply.
Charles exhaled slowly to show his disdain for the man. “When we get to that piss-ant collection of hovels ahead,” he seethed, turning to direct his scowl directly at the man, “we will all buy mismatched over-cloaks and coats. Can you guess why? Hmm? … No? I suppose I’ll tell you then. We should be able to catch that blasted growing caravan by twilight. My plan,” he highly emphasized this point, “is to just blend right in with it. This would probably be made easier if we didn’t look like a travelling choir, eh? We can become common trappers. Or better yet, pelt merchants looking to score big by going directly to the frontier.”
Charles smiled at his cleverness. It did make perfect sense, after all. Polishing the idea further, he continued, “I will be the businessman. You four can be my porters and asset protection. Let’s face it, you lot do look more like bodyguards than anything else. Now, if you would be so kind as to follow the order directed at you.” This was an overt threat, not a request. “When we do get caught up, if the weather holds, I imagine it should be soon. That said, even if it isn’t until tomorrow, you are to keep your mouths shut. Answering questions should be avoided at all costs. Instead, any enquiries posed to you should be directed to me. I will politely inform the curious that minding one’s own business is sometimes the safest choice.”
The Deacons smiled at this, as they could tell this was the response expected of them. The three men moved off ahead, discarding their hard-earned grey cloaks, leaving the tense-faced man to relish in his own perceived glory. This scene would become increasingly familiar, the Deacons grouped together, bonded by a common hatred of Charles, who preferred to ride alone. The men tired of the buffoon calling himself their leader but knew better than to rile him. Anyone who can derive that much pleasure by inflicting pain on others was not someone to underestimate. Besides, they, like Charles, only had one hope of ever being welcomed back into the fold of the Camaraderie. The Deacons would follow this devil of a man, for now.
Charles watched the Deacons canter away. Their compliance was all that was needed, not their friendship. He knew there would always be a divide between those who lead and those who follow. Charles was not a follower and cared little for what those kinds of people thought of him. He could sense their sneers behind his back and hear their brutish jokes at his expense. He would tolerate these men for the time being, only due to the extra manpower still being useful. There would come a time, hopefully soon, when the assistance of these brutes would no longer be needed. It was then that they would properly understand their position in the greater world, cursing the day they chose to rebuke him.
After taking a healthy drink from the diminished flask, Charles gave it a curious shake, estimating its contents to be lower than half. His eyes squinting even more than normal, he wondered if more of the tonic could be procured while passing through one of these backwater burgs. If not, they would have to speed this endeavor up. The praise due to him had been postponed long enough. “Soon,” Charles said languorously, “I will be back in England with my wife, walking the polished halls of the Basilica in London.” Snugging the flask in place down the upper sleeve of his waistcoat, Charles grinned as he shed the black robes of an intermediate, tossing them dispassionately amongst the brambles.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Fishkill smelled nearly as bad as the name would imply. The combined odor of loamy earth and pungent scat sat upon the place like a carrion bird gripping its next meal. The town proper stretched along a muddy wide road. Mismatched walkways spanned across some of the deeper puddles, maintaining access to the buildings that sat further back. Dominating the north side of the bustling town was a compound owned by the overland company, consisting of three buildings perched high above the muck, all clad in identical bright red paint.
Behind this complex were large, segregated corrals formed by lengths of stockade fencing. It was here that the convoy finally broke apart. One other company carriage had joined in New Millford, a larger eight seat model crammed with a German family. This buggy and the one carrying Marcus and Catherine peeled off between two of the red buildings. The cargo transports continued their slogging toward distant warehouses, while the civilians, a private brougham and four men on horseback who used the superior numbers to their advantage, stopped at a nearby hotel.
The trip had passed by nearly incident free. The only point of contention came when Catherine professed the immense unease she felt while going to relieve herself and some newly arrived men stared at her. Marcus tried to keep an eye on the self-proclaimed pelt merchants after this but could only catch glimpses of them at the rear of the procession. It seemed that the leader of this group must be a decent enough man, if only because he kept the cads separated from the rest of the caravan to avoid another incident. When the convoy stopped to have meals twice a day, the offending men did not enter the taverns with the rest of the group. When they stayed at a packed inn for the night, the men were nowhere to be found. Eventually, Marcus disregarded the episode, brushing it off by stating the three men must have never seen a woman quite as beautiful as her before. Catherine kept her guard up, however, in addition to maintaining a much more secretive schedule regarding her bodily functions.
Three days spent packed in the horse drawn crate had Marcus and Catherine sore, in dire need of a bath and more in love than ever. They flirted and cuddled across the whole of Connecticut, practically never leaving the carriage or each other’s side, especially after the ordeal with t
he merchants. The overland company announced that all those intending to continue westward would leave the following morning. Provided for a nominal fee, on-site lodging was limited to an old fieldstone house in the rear of the complex, which had been converted into an open garrison. Included in the fourteen pence a head package was a diner consisting of thin bean soup and crusty bread. Being as it would be just a few people staying in the barracks, Marcus and Catherine decided to sleep on the company grounds rather than try one of the questionable looking inns they passed. After claiming their luggage, the young couple went to find a semi-secluded bunk.
By the time the German family finished with the bathing facilities, accessed by entering the back of one of the red structures, the water in the copper tub looked like a silt-choked river. After heating some porcelain bowls of fresh water by dropping magically fired stones into them, Marcus and Catherine stripped down. They washed their underclothes, wringing and slapping the linen fabric as dry as possible, before hanging them near a pot-bellied stove that radiated a scorching heat. Dropping a coarse horse pelt down between the tall tub and the stove gave them just enough privacy to copulate quietly. The heat trapped in the small space, combined with their shared passion, caused sweat to flow freely. Bodies intertwined in afterglow, words lost all meaning. Long, edifying stares and side-mouth smiles became their new form of communicating during this brief period of bliss.
