“I see,” Hugo replied. “Well, mistress, never have I eaten a more satisfying meal. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Hugo tossed a coin on the table and rose to leave, eager to get away.
“But ye haven’t finished, sir.”
“Can’t eat another mouthful, I’m afraid.” That, at least, was true.
Hugo stepped out into the cold evening. He had to find a room for the night since it was doubtful that he would find the vicar at the church now. He supposed he could go visit the man at home, which might actually prove to be a better plan. People tended to be more honest when not in the house of God, even its humble servants.
Hugo was pointed in the direction of the vicar’s residence by the first person he asked. It was a modest house next to the church; the windows of the ground floor spilling light onto the snow in a most welcoming way. Hugo tethered his horse and knocked on the door, hoping he would learn something of value. The vicar was his only hope, since he doubted that anyone in the town could tell him more than the woman at The Globe. A middle-aged servant answered the door and directed Hugo to a small but comfortable parlor where the vicar sat reading by the fire. He set aside his book and rose to his feet, quickly hiding his look of surprise at having an unexpected visitor at that time of night.
“Reverend Creswell, my name is Richard Tully,” Hugo began, using his alias. There was nothing to be gained by announcing his true identity, especially since he was still technically an outlaw. “I apologize for disturbing you at such a late hour, but I’m afraid I’m in need of some information, and can’t wait.”
Reverend Creswell smiled broadly and indicated a chair by the fire, inviting Hugo to sit down. He was in his thirties, with kind dark eyes and a narrow face framed by wavy brown hair. He had a rather prominent nose, but was blessed with a pleasant smile, which probably made him popular with the females of his parish. An approachable and attractive vicar was always a bonus when church services were mandatory, and the vicar was often his parishioners’ only beacon of hope in times of hardship.
“Please, warm yourself by the fire. May I offer you a brandy? I must admit it’s one of my vices,” the vicar admitted shyly. “I look forward to having a small brandy after supper. It is rather an extravagance, but it’s such a pleasure that I’m afraid I simply can’t give it up. Never did care for ale or beer,” he confessed as he poured Hugo a measure of brandy.
“Thank you, Vicar. That’s most kind. I’m rather partial to brandy myself.”
“I’ve never been a believer in denying oneself small pleasures,” the vicar confided as he handed Hugo the glass.
Hugo took a sip of brandy. It was quite good, and almost washed away the nasty taste of the stew from his mouth. Hugo didn’t like to jump to conclusions about people, but he liked this man. Unless he was much mistaken, this was someone who served the people rather than an institution, and would readily put dogma aside to help his fellow man.
“How may I help you, Master Tully?” Reverend Creswell asked after topping off his own glass of brandy and taking a sip with a small sigh of pleasure.
“I’ve come in search of a dear friend who I believe might have passed this way in recent days. My friend felt it his duty to join His Majesty’s forces, and although the army had disbanded, he hadn’t returned home. I thought to start my search here in Reading, since I honestly don’t know where else to try.”
Reverend Creswell set down his glass next to the book and nodded in understanding. “That must be very distressing for you. In truth, I have very little information about the whereabouts of the royal supporters. The Battle of Broad Street, as the residents are calling it, was rather quick and decisive, with an undisputed victory for the Dutch.”
“I was told that there were casualties who were buried at St. Giles and a few wounded who’d been left behind.”
“Yes, there are about two dozen men who were interred at St. Giles. They are Irish Catholics, but since we have no Catholic priest here, I did my best for them, believing that they would understand. I have a list of names, if you’d care to look it over. There were also three men who were wounded. They were taken to a farm a few miles north of here to be tended to by Widow Starkey.”
“Does she have some knowledge of medicine?” Hugo asked.
“No more than most, but I felt it wise to remove the men from the town, given the hostility toward them, and Widow Starkey was given a small sum to compensate her for her trouble,” the vicar replied apologetically. “It was the best I could do under the circumstances.”
“You did what you felt was right, Vicar. I would like to speak to the men after I’ve taken a look at the list of the fallen.”
“I pray your friend is not on it,” the vicar replied as he rose to go fetch the list.
Hugo scanned the page, relieved to see that Brad’s name wasn’t there. He didn’t expect it to be, but needed to be sure. As long as he knew that Brad was alive, there was hope of finding him, although Hugo had no idea where to look. The trail was cold, and once he left Reading, he had no clue which way to go. Speaking to the survivors was the only logical next step.
“Where would I find this woman’s farm?” Hugo asked as he rose to leave.
“Master Tully, it’s late, and bitterly cold. I have a spare room which I would be happy to offer you, and I will direct you to the farm come morning. Do say you’ll stay.”
“Thank you, Vicar, that’s a most generous offer, and I gladly accept, but only if you allow me to buy you a bottle of brandy as payment.”
“I don’t require payment,” the vicar protested, but Hugo noticed a gleam in his eyes. Perhaps the good vicar indulged in more than one small brandy, as he claimed. Well, everyone had their vices, he supposed.
“A gift then, from one connoisseur to another,” Hugo suggested with a smile.
“It would be churlish to refuse,” the vicar replied, accepting Hugo’s offer graciously.
“It would indeed.”
The room at the top of the stairs was small, and the mattress lumpy, but Hugo had slept in less comfortable places. At least it was relatively warm and the bed linens were clean. Hugo undressed, got into bed in his shirt, and blew out the candle thoughtfully provided by the servant. He thought he’d fall asleep immediately, but sleep wouldn’t come, leaving him feeling restless and annoyed. And then he realized what was bothering him; this was the first time in years that Neve wasn’t lying next to him. The last time he’d slept alone was when Neve was in Newgate Prison, and he’d been tormented by despair, terrified that he’d lose Neve and their baby.
Hugo folded his arms behind his head and stared at the darkened ceiling. Only last night he’d shared a bed with Neve and the children. They’d been warm and snug, and he could still feel the slight pressure of Elena’s small body as she curled up next to him. He’d been overjoyed by the birth of Michael, but deep down, Hugo had to admit that Elena was the child of his heart. There was just something about her which neither of the other children had. Valentine was willful and, at times, manipulative. Michael was quiet and too fearful for a boy. But Elena was pure joy. She was sweet, affectionate, and incredibly brave for a child of one. Her natural curiosity overrode any fear she might have, and she plunged into things with an innocent abandon, eager for new experiences. And Hugo was her favorite as well. Valentine was attached to Archie, perhaps because he didn’t give in to her tantrums, and she instinctively felt that she needed to win him over. Michael was closer to Neve, his eyes always searching for his mother. But Elena was daddy’s girl, toddling toward him and climbing into his lap as she wrapped her arms about his neck and planted a sweet kiss on his cheek.
Hugo began to feel drowsy at last, thoughts of the children relaxing him and soothing his anxiety. He hoped he’d learn something at the farm tomorrow which would lead him to Brad since he hated to be away for long. He felt ashamed of his selfish thoughts, but he was desperate to return home to his family.
Chapter 15
Hugo burrowed deeper into his cloa
k as he set off for Widow Starkey’s farm after delivering a bottle of brandy to Vicar Creswell’s servant with his compliments. The vicar had already left for the church by the time Hugo awoke, but the servant had made sure he had a hearty breakfast before leaving, and had even given him a small parcel containing a pork roll and some cheese for his midday meal.
A dense fog had descended overnight, making visibility less than two feet. Hugo had been able to orient himself in the town, but once he reached the outskirts, an ominous silence descended all around him, making him feel as if he were riding through a thick cloud. To add to the illusion, the air was so saturated with moisture that Hugo’s face felt damp, and his horse’s coat glistened in the half-light. The vicar said that the farm wasn’t difficult to find as long as Hugo followed the road, so he ambled along, listening for any sounds of life. No farm was quiet. Even if the inhabitants were inside, there were animals who rarely felt the need for silence.
Hugo was beginning to debate the wisdom of his plan when after about an hour, he was still in exactly the same predicament. He hadn’t seen or heard anything. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he took out the pork roll and began to chew on it out of sheer boredom. It was cold and a little soggy, but still better than the horrible stew from last night. Hugo finished the roll, brushed the crumbs from his gloves, and continued on his way. Eventually, this fog would lift, but by that time, he might have passed the farm altogether.
About twenty minutes later, Hugo heard something that might have been the bleating of a sheep. A ghostly outline of a barn melted out of the fog as he drew nearer, and a rutted track led off toward the farmhouse. The house itself was of decent size, but looked as if it could have used some attention. It had a depressing, run-down air about it, as if the inhabitants didn’t care enough to spend time on its upkeep. A thin plume of smoke rose from the chimney, but the shutters were still closed despite fresh tracks in the snow which led to the barn. Hugo dismounted and rapped on the door, hoping that this was the place. The door eventually opened just a crack.
“What’ya want?”
“I’m looking for Widow Starkey,” Hugo answered in as friendly a voice as he could muster in the face of the woman’s hostility.
“I’m Mistress Starkey. What’s it to ye?” she demanded.
“I was hoping to speak to the Irish soldiers. I’m looking for someone.”
“Go away, whoever ye are.”
“I’ll pay you,” Hugo said and held out two coins where the woman could see them through the crack. She hesitated for a few moments, then finally opened the door. He’d been expecting a woman of middle years, but instead, he was confronted by a girl hardly older than Frances, with a baby on her hip. Mother and child were thin, and seemed to be wearing all the clothes they owned to keep warm. The fire in the hearth was burning low, the room cold enough to make Hugo’s breath come out in white puffs. The girl might have been pretty once, but she looked tired, her face gaunt from lack of nutrition. A few dirty strands of hair escaped her cap, and she brushed them away with impatience, eager for the money, but clearly annoyed by Hugo’s presence.
“Mistress Starkey, may I speak with the men you’re looking after?” Hugo asked politely. He didn’t see anyone in the house, nor did he hear anyone upstairs. If the rest of the house was as cold, they’d likely frozen to death.
“There were three of ‘em to start with,” the girl replied. “Two died right quick, but the third ‘un is up in the loft. Ye may go up if ye wish.”
“It must be freezing up there,” Hugo remarked. He didn’t mean to sound judgmental, but couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor man who was obviously not being cared for very well. The girl looked at him, her eyes narrowing at the affront. Two bright spots of color appeared in her sallow cheeks.
“Oh, aye, ‘tis freezin’ up there. And ‘tis also freezin’ down ‘ere. Me ‘usband died over the summer. ‘E was brawlin’ in town, got a beatin’ ‘e richly deserved, and died of ‘is injuries, leavin’ me alone with a newborn babe. Do ye think I’ve ‘ad much time to chop wood? I don’t know if we’ll make it through the winter, so don’t expect me to use me meager resources on someone who’s naught but a stranger and an imposition. I only did it for the money, and the value of yer coin is runnin’ out. If ye wish to speak to the man, do it, or else leave me in peace.”
Hugo stared at the girl, chastened by the tongue-lashing he’d just received. Of course, she was right. She was barely surviving, and to keep a fire going in the upstairs room would quickly diminish her already inadequate pile of firewood. He wished he could help her, but there wasn’t much he could do short of giving her some money, which would reduce her burden. She had spirit; he’d give her that.
“Show me,” Hugo said as he cut his eyes at the stairs. The girl seemed reluctant to go up, but finally relented. Hugo followed her up the narrow stairway. It was dark despite the early hour, and the upper floor was lost in shadow since the shutters were closed against the morning light. A terrible smell seemed to permeate the loft, something the girl was well aware of since she hung back and pointed to the right. “Over yonder,” she said.
Hugo was nearly knocked off his feet by the stench as he got closer to the silent shapes by the wall. He pulled out his handkerchief and held it to his nose as he threw open the shutters to admit some light, and approached the men carefully. There were three of them on the floor, but two were clearly dead, and had been for several days. The cold slowed down decomposition, but putrefaction had set in. Hugo noticed that anything of value had been stripped from the men, including their boots. Their bluish bare feet stuck out from beneath the threadbare blankets which had been pulled up to cover their faces. Widow Starkey would sell what she could as soon as she got to town.
Hugo ignored the corpses and carefully approached the third man who was lying in a fetal position in the corner, one arm over his head. He wasn’t wearing the uniform of the Irish detachment, but was dressed as a civilian. His breeches were drenched with blood, some dried, some fresh, and yellow pus stains suggested that the man’s wound had festered. Hugo briefly wondered when the man had last eaten. It seemed that the good widow wasn’t spending much time up here. There was a thick layer of dust on the floor, and mouse droppings were scattered over the bare boards. The mice had probably fled for lack of any edible crumbs.
“Sir,” Hugo addressed the man. “Can you hear me?” The man moaned in response, but shifted the arm covering his face by a few inches. His face was smudged with dirt, and his hair was so greasy it was difficult to tell its color.
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Hugo asked. “Some water perhaps? Have you eaten anything?”
“Your voice,” the man mumbled. “So familiar.”
“Pardon me?” Hugo asked as he inched closer to the man so as not to alarm him.
“Hugo,” the man breathed. “You sound like Hugo.”
“Oh, dear God,” Hugo gasped as he closed the space in two long strides. “Brad, is that really you?” How was it possible for a man as brawny and healthy as Brad to be reduced to such a state so quickly?
“Delirious,” Brad whispered to himself. “Hugo is in France.”
“Brad, it’s me, and I’m going to get you out of here.” Hugo crouched next to his friend and put his hand over Brad’s. “It’s really me. I’m here, Brad.”
Brad’s eyelids fluttered as he tried to open his eyes. His face was haggard from pain and lack of food, and his normally powerful frame had whittled down considerably. Brad’s shaggy blond hair was crusted with grime, and the stench from the wound was unbearable.
“I’ll be right back,” Hugo said as he strode from the loft and thundered down the stairs.
“How could you allow a man to get to such a state?” Hugo roared at the defiant girl. “He’s dying up there, and probably not even from his wound. When was the last time you fed him or gave him a drink? And what about the corpses of those soldiers? Will you let them lie there until they rot?”
“Now, ye listen to me, Master ‘igh and Mighty. I ‘aven’t got the strength to drag ‘em down by meself or to bury ‘em. I thought ‘twas the more decent thing to do rather than leave ‘em to the animals. I was goin’ to tell the vicar come Sunday and ask ‘im to send someone to ‘elp me. Thought the third ‘un would be dead by then.”
“So, you were hoping he’d die, so you could strip him and sell his belongings?”
“And what could I do for ‘im? I gave ‘im food and water, but I barely ‘ave enough to feed meself. ‘Is wound festered. ‘Twas just a matter of time.”
“Do you have an outbuilding where the bodies can remain until help arrives?”
“’Tis out back,” the girl answered sullenly.
“Give me something to wrap them in,” Hugo ordered.
“I ain’t got nothin’ I can spare. Use the blankets; they’re ruined anyhow.”
“Boil some water, get me clean strips of linen, and heat some porridge. Lay a fire in the loft. I’ll pay you,” Hugo added as he saw the gleam of defiance in the girl’s eyes.
He didn’t wait to see if she would comply, but went back upstairs to remove the first corpse. The blanket was barely enough to wrap around the man, but Hugo did his best and carried down the bundle, maneuvering the body to avoid hitting the walls. The man was unbearably heavy, but Hugo didn’t set him down until he was outside the house, then he grabbed him by the feet and dragged him to the outbuilding. He didn’t have the time or the strength to dig through frozen ground to bury the men, and it would be best if they were buried at St. Giles, next to their comrades. They deserved that much.
The second man had been thinner and not as heavy. Hugo was surprised to notice that he didn’t seem to have any obvious fatal wound. There was some blood on his upper right arm, but it appeared to be more of a flesh wound. The wound didn’t look infected, so he must have died of something else. Had the poor man frozen or starved to death? Hugo didn’t have time to ponder the cause of death since he had to see to Brad. He left the two men laid out side by side, said a quick prayer, crossed himself, and commended their souls to God.
The Queen's Gambit (The Wonderland Series: Book 4) Page 8
