Wonderland (Wonderland Series: Book 2)

by Irina Shapiro

  I nearly cried with joy when I spotted Brad’s leonine head. He was gazing up at a stained glass window in such apparent concentration as to make it obvious that it was all an act. His hands were folded behind his back, and he seemed enraptured of the subject, although his eyes frequently strayed to the door. He walked away as soon as he saw us enter, and took a seat in a hard wooden pew that was furthest away from people milling in the nave, waiting for us to join him. He seemed unusually nervous, and I hoped he didn’t have bad news.

  “Neve, you look in fine health,” he said quietly as I sat down next to Hugo. “Pregnancy agrees with you.” I could see that he had lots of questions, but Hugo forestalled him asking any of them by going directly to the crux of the problem.

  “Have you been able to find anything out?”

  “I have, actually. According to my learned friend, it seems that the basis of any case is to first establish the identity of the accused. A trial cannot proceed if there’s any doubt. Gideon advised me that witnesses need to be brought forward who would testify to the fact that Maximillian Everly is not Hugo Everly. Of course, the more witnesses there are, the better,” Brad explained, clearly satisfied with this idea.

  Hugo was less impressed. “But if no one can see the prisoner, how can they possibly know if it’s me or not until the actual trial, and even then, given the resemblance, they’d need to actually talk to Max to make sure that we are not one and the same.”

  “Yes, that’s a hindrance, but one which can be overcome. If enough people can be prevailed upon to testify without actually seeing Maximilian, such as myself, your sister, your man-at-arms perhaps, then we stand a chance. We obviously know that the man is an impostor, so we don’t need to spend time with him to ascertain this fact. Even if a few people can cast suspicion on the identity of the prisoner, the trial can’t go forth. They won’t release him, of course, but at least he won’t be executed for a crime he didn’t commit. In time, Maximillian might be set free, once any doubt has been eradicated.”

  Hugo stared up at the window, his face set in hard lines as he tried to poke holes in this plan. He didn’t seem to come up with too many objections since he turned back to Brad, nodding in agreement. “That seems to be the best chance we have, so we must try it. Of course, a man of law must be hired to put this notion forward since the Crown will not lift a finger to mount any kind of defense. Max is on his own in there. What do you propose, Brad? Can your man be hired for this case?”

  “It’s already done. Gideon Warburton will visit Maximillian in the Tower tomorrow. He is instructed to say that his services are being paid for by a benefactor. Gideon will report directly to me, and will do his utmost to get any information from the prisoner which might help his case. Is there anyone we can contact who can verify his identity?” Brad asked, suddenly realizing that the coin has two sides. “Does he have a wife, mother, child, or even a mistress? It would greatly help.”

  “There’s no one,” Hugo answered, his voice flat. “Maximillian has no family.”

  “Well, where did he come from? I’d never heard you mention him before.” Brad was anything if not persistent.

  “I don’t know, Brad. I haven’t seen the man in years. We never kept in correspondence. I believe he might have been living abroad.”

  “So how can you be so sure that there’s no one we can call upon? Surely there’s someone who knows him. Where was he living before he came to Cranley? Did he take a ship from abroad? If he weren’t here during the rebellion, he’d be proven innocent. Perhaps there’s a captain, or a member of the crew who could testify that he had been aboard their vessel,” Brad insisted.

  “Have your man Gideon ask him. Perhaps he can put forth a few names. In the meantime, please send a message to my sister asking her to come to London,” Hugo asked. His brow was furrowed, and I wondered why that should be, but didn’t ask. Perhaps he didn’t want Jane to worry, but he’d written to her telling her that we never left for France. Seeing us in London wouldn’t be any great shock to her.

  I had actually thought that Jane would come to London at the first opportunity, but there was still no word from her. Perhaps she had to make arrangements for Clarence, although he was old enough to stay alone for a few days in a house full of servants, supervised by his tutor. Clarence would probably relish a few days of freedom, hounded as he was by Jane to focus on his studies. At thirteen, the boy never got to do anything fun, and probably missed his uncle who took him hunting and fishing despite the protests of his mother.

  “I’d invited Jane to stay at the house when she comes to London. You know how she hates to stay at inns,” Brad said as we prepared to leave. “I will send a message once she arrives.”

  “Brad, don’t tell Jane where we’re staying,” Hugo said as Brad turned to leave. “She might decide to come see us, and having my sister visit me would be paramount to yelling my whereabouts from the city walls. I will arrange a meeting when the time comes.”

  “Of course,” Brad replied with a smile. “I will be as silent as the grave.”

  Chapter 4

  Max Everly hobbled toward the narrow window of his cell, drawn by the raised voices and general commotion taking place down below. He’d seen the wooden structure being built, but being a man of the twenty-first century, didn’t immediately make a connection between the structure and its purpose. Max watched in horror as a young man was led out of an arched doorway across the green and escorted to the scaffold by two burly guards. An executioner was already on the scaffold; his hands gripping the handle of the ax as he swung it a few times for practice.

  There was also an elderly clergyman, his face pale, and his lips twitching nervously as he watched the approach of the condemned. The young man looked terrified, but walked with his head held high, shrugging off the hand of the guard on his arm in a last gesture of defiance. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen, but his courage in the face of death was extraordinary.

  A few people stood by, eager for their entertainment, but it wasn’t a great crowd by any means. The condemned was probably someone of no account, his death not worth the bother of a public execution. Max knew he should step away from the window, but he was rooted to the spot, unable to tear his eyes away from the young man as the clergyman spoke to him quietly, offering absolution. The young man shook his head, his face set in hard lines as the clergyman moved away, noticeably angry. The young man crossed himself with an air of defiance, making the Protestant clergyman wince at this singularly Catholic gesture.

  This seemed to be a sign for the execution to begin. The guard moved forward to force the young man to his knees, but he held up his hand and sank to his knees of his own accord, laying his head on the block and staring down at the wood beneath him, his hands gripping the sides of the block. Max winced as he heard the thwack of the ax and watched the man’s head fall onto the wood beneath. Crimson ribbons of blood coated the rough planks, dripping between the cracks and pooling at the feet of the executioner who was accepting praise for a job well done. He’d chopped off the head with one stroke, something that was apparently quite a feat.

  The clergyman departed without a second glance as the crowd began to disperse, a single weeping woman left standing by the scaffold. She sank to her knees, sobbing bitterly, but no one paid her any mind. She was of middle years, and it shook Max to the core to realize that she was probably the young man’s mother. She reached out toward the head, but one of the guards kicked her hand away with his boot, ordering her to leave. She didn’t. She remained by the scaffold until someone came with a hand cart to take the body away and throw a bucket of water onto the planks to wash away the blood. Only then did she finally rise and follow the cart as it was wheeled away, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Max hoped that she would be able to claim the body for burial since the young man wouldn’t get a Catholic service at the Tower. It was a small thing, but to her, it would mean the world, especially since he probably didn’t receive last rites.
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br />   Max turned away from the window and was violently sick into the chamber pot. His hands were shaking, and his knees buckled as his brain finally processed what it had just seen. This wasn’t some historical drama; this was real life. A young man had just been beheaded before his eyes, his crime likely no more serious than theft or assault. A life had been cut short without any fanfare or pity. One strike of the ax and it was all over; no appeals, no retrials, and no life in prison. This was not the lenient justice system of the future; this was a world where people were routinely executed, partially to inspire fear, and partially to keep the cost of incarceration down. The Crown didn’t need the expense of supporting countless prisoners for years. Max finally forced himself to get up off the floor and lay on his cot, curling into a fetal position.

  Max had been in this cell for over two weeks now, since he’d been foolish enough to saunter into the village without any thought to what might happen. He’d been so excited to finally find the passage that all family history fled from his mind, leaving him feeling like a kid at Christmas. It had taken him months to decipher Henry’s diary and figure out how to open the damn passage. The answer had been in front of him all the time, but Henry had hidden the key in plain sight. A drawing of a six-petaled flower. So simple.

  He’d only wanted a little taste of seventeenth-century life, not thinking for even a moment that he could be arrested in lieu of Hugo. The soldiers wouldn’t listen to a word he said, beating him savagely until he could no longer speak, much less stand. They’d trussed him up and taken him to London in fetters, like an animal, allowing him only some bread and ale on the journey and refusing to uncuff him even when he was desperate for a piss. One of the soldiers had to help him, laughing at him as he grabbed his cock painfully with calloused hands and ordered him to do his business.

  Since then, Max had been repeatedly beaten and questioned by several different men. His ribs ached unbearably every time he so much as drew breath, and several teeth had been knocked loose. Max’s left eye was swollen shut, and his bottom lip split. At least two fingers were broken, as was probably his nose. He could barely get enough air through the swollen nostrils, which made breathing even more difficult. He’d told them the same story over and over, but they didn’t believe him. And why should they?

  Max could feel the cold, stone wall behind his back. It was as hard and unyielding as his captors. Tears of fear and frustration slid down his stubbled cheeks as his body shook with the shock of what he’d just seen. He might not be next, but his turn would come sooner or later. There was nothing he could do to convince his guards that he wasn’t Hugo Everly, and there wasn’t a single person he could appeal to for help. Who would believe him? Who would care? Hugo had been branded a traitor and executing him served a double purpose. He’d be punished for his crime, and his death would serve as a deterrent to others who considered plotting against the Crown. Max let out a mirthless bark of a laugh. He’d wanted to run for Parliament only a month ago, had been planning his campaign and seeking backers. Politics was a dirty business in his own time, but nothing compared to the ruthless, bloody quagmire it was now. In the twenty-first century, a person might risk disgrace, financial ruin, and possibly a tabloid scandal, but this was much deadlier. Backing the wrong horse meant certain death, and Hugo had backed the wrong horse.

  Why couldn’t he have just stayed neutral and accepted a Catholic monarch? Was he such a religious zealot? Hugo hadn’t struck Max as being particularly religious or unreasonable. Of course, he hadn’t known him for more than a few hours, but the impression he’d gotten was of a man very much in control of himself and his surroundings, despite the fact that he was completely out of his element in the twenty-first century. What possessed him to throw in his lot with the bastard son of Charles II? Did it mean that much to him to have a Protestant on the throne, or were there other reasons which would remain unknown?

  And where was Hugo now? Was he still in the future with Neve, or had he returned to his own time? Unlikely, since Max was now incarcerated in his place. Hugo avoided arrest by escaping to the future, and Max stupidly stepped into his place by going to the past. It’d be funny if it weren’t so bloody unbelievable. Perhaps Hugo knew that Max was missing, and was trying to pass himself off as Lord Everly in the future. If Max could be mistaken for Hugo, surely Hugo could be mistaken for Max. Of course, his mother would never fall for the hoax, not for a second.

  Max couldn’t even bring himself to think about his poor mother. He’d disappeared without a trace, just as Neve had several months before, leaving his mother to jump to her own conclusions. Would she have alerted the police, or would she have finally believed that the passage was real and that he’d gone off into the past? Naomi Everly was way too old and too frail to come after her only son in pursuit, so she would be forced to just sit and wait, hoping that Max was safe and would come back to her. Would she still be there waiting if he ever managed to return, or would the strain of not knowing what happened to him kill her?

  He’d had many arguments with his mother, occasionally thought her to be cold and domineering, but he would give absolutely anything to see her one last time; to tell her that he loved and respected her, and to have her lay her gnarled hand on his head in a sign of benediction as she had when he told her he’d be seeking a seat in Parliament. She’d been proud of him then, believing Max to finally be living up to his potential rather than shirking his responsibilities as Lord Everly. What would she think of him now, caged and beaten, but most of all terrified?

  Max forced himself to breathe as deeply as he could to stop the shaking and tears. The taste of vomit was still strong in his mouth, but there was nothing to drink, so he just wiped it with his dirty sleeve and gulped in some air. They hadn’t executed him yet, so maybe they weren’t as sure as they’d been two weeks ago that he was Hugo Everly. Max knew that he was deceiving himself, but he was desperate for any shred of hope he could grasp at. Otherwise, he’d have to accept that he was living on borrowed time, and he wasn’t ready to do that just yet.

  Max had finally managed to reach some semblance of calm when he heard the scraping of the key in the lock. Dear God, were they going to question him again so soon? He’d barely had any time to recover from the last bout. Max braced himself; holding on to the cot as if it could save him, but the guard barely looked at him as he admitted a short, slightly overweight man wearing a brown curly wig into the cell. The man wrinkled his nose in disgust at the smell of vomit, sweat, and dried blood, but gave Max a stiff bow and asked if he might take a seat. Max nodded, stunned that the man was being civil. He appeared to be around Max’s age, his plump cheeks pale, and his muddy brown eyes devoid of any expression save curiosity.

  “My name is Gideon Warburton, Master Everly. I will call you that from now on, since it is your assertion that you are not Lord Everly. Is that correct?”

  Max felt a moment of blinding hope as he faced the little man. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “I’ve been sent here by a benefactor who wishes to remain anonymous to help you prove your case, Master Everly. Is that acceptable to you?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Max asked, confused. Who could possibly be his benefactor, and why would he wish to remain anonymous? No one in this century knew him or even of him, much less might feel the need to help him. As far as the world was concerned, he was Hugo Everly, pretending to have lost his mind in order to avoid the gallows.

  “I need your consent to represent your interests,” the man replied, not unkindly. “I know you’ve been through a lot,” he said, taking in Max’s injuries. “I’ve paid the guard to bring you some decent food, a candle, and some paper, should you wish to write a letter to someone. Is there anything else you might need besides hot water for washing and a clean shirt?”

  “You’ve paid the guard?” Max asked stupidly. “But I can’t pay you back. I have nothing.”

  “I’m aware of that; that’s why I paid him,” Master Warburton explained patiently. “Now, s
hall we begin?” Gideon Warburton pulled out a clean sheet of paper, a quill, and a pot of ink from his leather satchel and set them out carefully on the scarred wooden table, as if preparing to take copious notes.

  “Begin what?”

  “Planning your defense, sir. Now, is there anyone who can vouch for your identity, anyone at all?”

  “Other than Hugo Everly himself? No.”

  “Surely there must be someone. Are you married, are your parents still living, do you have any children, a mistress, or even a faithful servant?”

  “I’ve eh… been out of the country for several years. My parents are deceased and I’m not married, have no children or a mistress, and have done without servants for some time,” Max answered, realizing that he was for all effects and purposes digging his grave even deeper.

  “That’s not very helpful, but we’ll work with that. Your only hope lies in proving that you are indeed Maximilian Everly rather than Hugo Everly. Is there any way to do that?” Gideon Warburton gazed at Max sternly, as if willing him to produce a battalion of credible witnesses.

  “Master Warburton, I’m sorry to say that there’s no one who can vouch for me. I’m quite alone,” Max replied, fearful that the man would just give up on him and leave, but Gideon Warburton suddenly granted him a small, but warm smile.