The Passage

by Irina Shapiro

  Hugo took a deep breath, gulped some wine to calm himself and faced me across the table, his anger now under a semblance of control. “You are right on both counts, although your Sight is somewhat flawed. There are things you don’t know,” Hugo said.

  “Such as?” I knew I was right about the rebellion, so had I misread the situation with Jane? Had my dream been a fabrication of my mind?

  “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re probably right, and I thank you for your concern for my well-being. I will take care not to lose my head,” he replied with a sad smile, “although I can’t guarantee it.”

  “Hugo, don’t do it,” I cried, suddenly scared for him. “Monmouth has no legitimate claim to the throne, nor the manpower to mount a proper rebellion. If this country wants a Protestant monarch, they will get one very soon.” That got his attention.

  “What? How?” Hugo had gone white, his eyes bugging out of his head. I suddenly stopped and stared at him, the penny finally dropping. Hugo was a Catholic; he didn’t want a Protestant monarch. Whatever he was doing with Monmouth wasn’t as straightforward as it seemed, and I had blundered in, knowing very little of the man or his cause.

  “Oh, God. I’ve got it all wrong, haven’t I?” I whispered.

  “What will happen to King James?” Hugo demanded. I couldn’t stop now, so I told him the rest in the hope that he would believe me.

  “King James and his wife will have a child in 1688, a boy, which will ensure a Catholic succession, unacceptable to the predominantly Protestant majority. The nobles will conspire to invite James’s daughter Mary and her husband, William of Orange to invade England.” I felt my eyes sting with tears as I saw the expression on Hugo’s face. He was heartbroken, and I had been the cause. Maybe it’d been better if he found all this out on his own, or maybe he never would have if he died this year. He’d have thought that James would continue to rule and that his death was a noble sacrifice.

  “And King James?” Hugo finally asked.

  “King James will live out his life in France, known as “The Pretender.” His son will try to regain the throne, but there will never be a Stuart or a Catholic king again.”

  Hugo poured himself another cup of wine and gulped it down in one swallow, his face still as pale as the tablecloth that was now stained with several crimson blobs, soaking into the cloth and spreading like spilled blood. I wished I never came, never spoken. I had just destroyed this man I’d been trying to help. I felt awful, and scared. My insides clenched; my stomach burned, the bile rising up my esophagus in a wave of searing pain. I couldn’t breathe, and my legs began to shake with the enormity of what I had done to Hugo Everly, but especially to myself.

  “Hugo, I’m really sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain. I thought I was helping.” And the road to hell is paved with good intentions, I thought to myself. Why couldn’t I have just minded my own business and allowed history to take its course?

  “So did Cassandra of Troy,” he said, giving me a weak smile. “You are not to blame. It’s just something of a shock. I suppose that’s why we are not meant to know our future.”

  He grew silent, staring with unseeing eyes at something just over my right shoulder. I could see that he was thinking, considering, speculating, and looking for a glimmer of hope to be found in my prophecy. Perhaps he wouldn’t punish me for the news I’d brought, so maybe my panic was premature. I began to take calming breaths, willing my body to relax. I was actually kind of surprised to see Hugo’s eyes brighten and his color return to normal as he suddenly resumed eating.

  “You seem miraculously recovered,” I remarked, amazed by the change in Hugo’s demeanor which was highly reassuring. Perhaps not all was lost.

  “I was just thinking,” he said, “that if I heed your warning, I can change my future. I can take a ship to France, for instance, and be nowhere near England when Monmouth makes his decisive push, therefore saving my life and allowing history to take its course.”

  “Is that what you’re going to do?” I asked, hoping that he would do just that. Perhaps my warning hadn’t been in vain after all.

  “Of course not, but if I can change the course of my life, then it’s possible that the future can be altered. What you see is one version of events. Perhaps things will happen just as you say, but if one man can do one thing to alter the present, then the vision of the future might change accordingly with time.” He seemed very pleased with this deduction and took a sip of wine as he smiled into my eyes.

  “The future cannot be changed, Hugo.”

  “Maybe not, but one still has to try. What do you suggest, that I barricade myself in the house and wait for all this to blow over? There’s more to life than being safe; there’s also following your conscience and fighting for your beliefs. My life is worth nothing if I choose safety over my convictions.”

  “Well said,” I agreed, “if you want to be a martyr.”

  “I have no intention of becoming a martyr. I will simply follow the path I’ve chosen, but keep what you said in mind. I have no desire to simply throw my life away, if that’s what you think.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that. And how does supporting Monmouth further your own goals? You are a Catholic, are you not? So why support the rebellion of a Protestant bastard against the rightful heir to the throne who also happens to be a Catholic?”

  Hugo stopped chewing for a moment and considered my question. I could see that he was torn between talking about that which was so important to him, and keeping his own counsel. His face showed a few conflicting emotions before he finally came to a decision and nodded, almost to himself. I suppose he wouldn’t be telling me anything that most people didn’t already know, but he would be incriminating himself, which he’d already technically done.

  “I met Monmouth at Court when he first came from Holland. He was plain James Crofts then until his father created him a duke. I have to admit that I rather liked him, and we became fast friends. We’d both lost our mothers, although I could still remember mine; she died shortly after Jane was born. Monmouth never really knew his mother and was brought up by foster parents chosen by his father, the king. He was bright, witty, and had a great sense of adventure and fun. We spent many hours together exploring Whitehall and trying to flirt with the various ladies of the Court. My father was much at Court, you see, so I saw James quite frequently.” Hugo grew silent, remembering those happy days when politics had not ruled his life. He was just a teenage boy then, having fun and growing into manhood on one of the world’s greatest stages.

  “So, what changed?” I asked.

  “Titus Oates. I’m sure you remember him. In 1679, Titus Oates came to warn the king of a supposed Popish Plot against him. It was all nonsense, but it started a mass hysteria against Catholics, which is exactly what Oates and his followers hoped for. The revelation that the king’s brother was Catholic incited even those who’d previously been tolerant of Catholics, and the king was under great pressure to quell this wave of fear. Prominent Catholics were asked to leave their posts, and the Royal Declaration of Indulgence, which protected the rights of non-Protestants, was nullified. Many of my father’s contemporaries and friends were ousted. My father was long gone by then, but he would have been horrified by what was happening in the country.” Hugo gazed at me across the table to see if I was following his story. Of course, I’d heard all these historical facts before, but now I was faced with someone who’d been affected by them.

  “That still doesn’t explain why you support Monmouth,” I ventured, knowing that Hugo had told me very little so far that I wouldn’t know myself having supposedly come from seventeenth-century London.

  Hugo gave a slight shrug, casting caution to the wind as he warmed to his subject. “The king’s succession is ordained by God. James was next in line since Charles II had no legitimate children, and no one would question this if it wasn’t for his religious beliefs. Likewise, James’s future son is next in line for the thro
ne, Catholic or not. However, there are many out there who support Monmouth and believe that he has a right to rule. They would never condone this anarchy had James been a Protestant, but these people are ignorant and desperate, and they want to see a Protestant on the throne at all cost, even if he happens to be a bastard. As long as the Duke of Monmouth is alive, there will always be plots to assassinate James and his offspring.”

  I continued to stare at Hugo in an effort to figure out where he came in. If he were a Catholic, why would he want to help Monmouth rebel against a Catholic king? What was I missing? “I don’t understand,” I finally admitted, making Hugo smile.

  “You said yourself that Monmouth doesn’t have the resources or the support to mount a successful rebellion. The longer he waits the more support he will gain, especially if James has a son. So, there are those of us who want to see Monmouth try for the crown sooner rather than later, and fail. King James will have no choice but to send the army to quell the rebellion and Monmouth will be defeated once and for all. His ambitions will be quashed, and his supporters either executed or disgraced. Monmouth’s failure and subsequent execution for treason will put an end to the witch-hunt against James and leave him to rule in peace as a Catholic monarch, who will hopefully ensure his succession soon.”

  “And you have no pangs of conscience about leading your friend to the scaffold?” I tried to keep the scorn out of my voice, but couldn’t help myself. Hugo spoke so dispassionately about the Duke of Monmouth being executed for treason.

  I was gratified to see a veil pass over Hugo’s eyes as the full force of my accusation hit him. He lowered his head for a moment, either gathering his thoughts or thinking how best to tell me off. He was silent for a moment and when he looked back at me, I could see genuine sorrow in his gaze.

  “I don’t want to see him dead,” he replied quietly. “I want James to live to a ripe old age, preferably in Holland, and die in his bed surrounded by people who love him, but as long as he harbors ambitions of usurping the throne from the rightful king, he’s in danger of losing his life. His father told him that he would never be king, and that he should be happy with what he has, but James’s ambition is boundless. He will not rest until he either gets what he yearns for, or dies trying. I will not be the instrument of his destruction; he will.”

  I inclined my head, accepting his answer. He was right, of course; the Duke of Monmouth meant to be king, and Hugo or no Hugo, his fate was sealed.

  “So, assuming that your plan comes to pass, and Monmouth is no longer a threat to the king, what of William and Mary being invited to rule?” I asked, hating to squash his hopes so brutally.

  “The people might not want a Catholic monarch, but James is English and a direct descendant of the house of Stuart. William is a foreigner. I don’t believe that as many people as you say would welcome him as the next king. If James rules long enough to prove that he is a just and good king, the people will come to accept him in time and stop fearing his association with Rome. There are too many Protestants in this country for James to really force the issue of returning the country to Catholicism, as they fear. He simply needs time to show the people that he will not be a tyrant as Mary Tudor was, and brand them all heretics fit only for the fires of Hell.”

  “Do you believe them to be heretics?” I asked, needing to ascertain exactly how much of a zealot Hugo himself might be. His explanation so far seemed very rational, but many a religious fanatic managed to sound rational at times.

  “No, of course not. I believe that a man should worship as he sees fit. We’re all subjects of the same God, are we not? I simply fear that if James is deposed, the future of Catholics in this country will become untenable, and that’s not something I’m prepared to live with.”

  “You might not get the chance to live with it. As a supporter of Monmouth, you will be branded a traitor as well,” I reminded him.

  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Hugo responded, a closed look coming over his face. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore, and I didn’t blame him. I’d hoped I might have distracted him from questioning my story, but Hugo wasn’t one to just let things go.

  “Enough about me,” he said with finality. “I think I’ve earned the right to ask a few questions. Where are you from, Mistress Ashley, and what brought you here?” Hugo asked suddenly, his eyes narrowed just enough to put me on my guard.

  “London.” Stick to the truth as much as possible if you want your lie to be believed, I told myself.

  “So, how come you to be here?” Hugo asked.

  “I was scared for my life, so I fled. I took sanctuary at the church,” I confided in him, hoping he’d believe me and not ask too many more questions. My so-called Sight was certainly enough to get me into trouble in London, so he might just accept that I ran afoul of someone who didn’t like my prophecy.

  “So, what were you doing in the lane that day?” Hugo asked, clearly still suspicious once again.

  “I had no money left and was hoping to beg some food from your kitchens. I was hungry,” I replied.

  “And I nearly killed you that day, and then I assaulted you and locked you in a room with nothing to eat when you risked your safety to come warn me of what you’ve seen.” He looked genuinely contrite, and I felt a little more charitable toward him. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. I knew what I was about, but he didn’t, and given his situation, he couldn’t be too careful.

  “It’s all right. I should have just told you the truth, but I was afraid. I’d like to go back to the church in the morning,” I added, hoping that he wouldn’t object to me spending the night. The rain was lashing at the windows, the wind howling with such ferocity that it rattled the shutters and sounded like someone moaning and crying in the night. Another few hours wouldn’t make that much of a difference, and I really was emotionally drained from my ordeal. “Thank you for supper.”

  I rose to my feet and was about to leave when Hugo’s grin stopped me in my tracks. He was leaning back in the chair, his hands clasped across his middle and his head cocked to the side, but I could see that it was a contrived pose. He was up to something.

  “Why are you smiling that way?” I asked, suddenly nervous.

  “Good night, Mistress Ashley. Rest well, since you will most certainly leave in the morning.” I could see that there was more, so I waited silently, forcing him to tell me.

  “You and I are going on a journey come morning to visit another devoted supporter of Monmouth’s cause.” Hugo seemed to be enjoying his little announcement, watching me like a cat who’s playing with a bird it’s about to devour.

  “What? Why?”

  “I can hardly just let you leave here after all that’s just transpired, can I? You know enough about me to have me arrested for treason by the king’s men or have me killed by Monmouth should he discover my true purpose. You are also aware of my nephew’s true parentage, which can threaten his inheritance, since although he’s Ernest’s son within the law, he’s really a bastard and has no right to the estate. Ernest has a daughter from a previous marriage who would very much like to hear what you’ve just told me. I’m sorry, my sweet, but I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

  “And how will you explain my presence to your associates, my sweet?” I asked, my tone mocking. I was angry, and I wanted him to know it.

  “You’re my mistress.”

  “Your mistress?!” I nearly gagged on the word. “Are you mad?”

  “Insanity has very little to do with my decision. It’s self-preservation that drives me. Plenty of men bring their wives and mistresses along to make these meetings appear more social than political. After all, no one wants to be accused of treason, especially so early on in the game.”

  The twinkle in his eye genuinely annoyed me. He was having fun at my expense and not only insulting me, but seizing control of my life and trying to bend me to his will.

  “And if I refuse?” I challenged him. He could hardly force me to act as a mi
stress would, even if he managed to drag me along.

  “By your own admission, you’re alone, without funds, and fearful for your safety. I’m offering you a life of comfort and relative security until the coming rebellion. Then, you’re free to go your own way as long as you keep mum about my nephew’s paternity, which won’t matter anymore in any case since the terms of the Will would have been met by then. Clarence must be thirteen to inherit his father’s estate, which he will be in June. I promise you’ll be well paid for your silence as a thank you from me. Do we have an agreement?”

  “No, we don’t. I want to be free to leave. NOW!” The insolent bastard, I thought angrily. He’d thought of everything while I was under the impression that he was shaken by what I’d told him. His mind was certainly quick as lightning, and he probably sorted through all the alternatives, coming up with the only one that guaranteed my silence.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go. I need to keep you with me, and I think you might need me as well. You wouldn’t have come back had you not felt something for me, however slight, so let’s build on it and make it work for us both. Jane has a few gowns and jewels she can lend you; she’s not wearing them while in mourning. She can instruct you on how to behave and what’s expected of you. You can pose as my mistress, which shouldn’t be too hard to do. Your gift of Sight can be a useful asset in the coming months.”