Chase the Dawn (48 page)

“I come, too, Charlie.” Ned jumped to his feet, holding out his hand imperatively.

“No,” Ben stated in the soft voice they all knew. “We’ll not play on sympathy.”

“What’s that?” demanded the child, although he resumed his seat at Bryony’s feet without argument.

“What Ben means is that after one look at your big brown eyes, Ned love, the soldiers will give us all the milk and food we need,” Bryony said, stroking his hair.

“They don’t have sufficient for their own needs.” Ben hoisted the kettle off the fire. “This is ready now.”

“I’ll be about my business, then.” Charlie disappeared, and Bryony gritted her teeth, facing the upcoming ordeal.

The silence in the room was disturbed only by the sound of water being wrung from the cloth that Ben was
using to soak the leather glued to the wound, and the occasional shuffle of his knees on the earthen floor as he shifted position. Ned sat watching, the tip of his thumb between his teeth. Bryony’s eyes were closed. It seemed easier that way to separate herself from the excruciating pain as Ben tried to ease away the leather that was embedded in her flesh. She spoke only once, in a tiny voice. “I do not think I want you to do this anymore, Ben.”

“I must, sweeting,” was the only reply, uttered in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone that did more to bolster her courage than all the sympathy in the world. The task was done at last, and the torn, soggy mess of her foot could be washed and bound. Ben wiped her tears with his grubby handkerchief and kissed her. “You are a grand campaigner, my sweet, but you’ll not walk on that foot for a few days. We must fashion you a crutch.”

For the next three days, Bryony hobbled around the cottage doing what she could to make it more comfortable. They now had straw palliasses, which were a great improvement over the bare earth. Ben and Charlie patched the roof and tightened the shutters, so they were warm, at last. There was no shortage of firewood, but there was a shortage of food. That problem, and trying to induce Ned to use the necessary house rather than a bush as he was accustomed, became Bryony’s main concerns during the long hours that Benedict and Charlie were about the business of pulling together this weak and disparate force.

The store rations allowed two soldiers were scant and could not begin to feed four, even when one of them was a mere five-year-old. Ben and Charlie had pooled their resources, and Bryony, once her foot healed, went out on daily foraging expeditions armed with a few pennies, to
see what could be bought. She discovered soon enough that those who had were not prepared to share, except for an extortionate sum. There were chickens, cows, and goats in the hamlets outside the town, producing eggs, milk, butter, and cheese. There were smokehouses, where bacon and hams hung. But the possessors of these riches wanted more than Bryony’s pennies. She was by no means the only one in search of scarce provisions, and the atmosphere in the countryside was sullen, fear and mistrust on every face.

The first time she stole, she found herself flooded with an amazing conflict of emotions—primarily, incredulity at how easy it had been, followed by a strange excitement, then sheer joyous satisfaction at the thought of the four eggs at the bottom of her basket. Guilt, when it came, was not powerful, and Bryony decided that hunger and privation were excellent tutors when it came to replacing the moral values of a lifetime.

She glanced down at Ned, who was trotting along beside her. He had seen her take the eggs from the bowl on the shelf in the dairy when the farmer’s wife had grudgingly gone off to fetch a cup of milk for Bryony’s proffered penny. He had said nothing, however, and she was unsure whether she should mention it. She did not want him blurting her new profession to Benedict, but neither did she want to involve such a child in a conspiracy of silence. In the end, Bryony decided to leave well enough alone. If it came out, then so be it.

As it happened, either Ned had not found anything strange in Bryony’s behavior, or he forgot what he had seen. There were delighted exclamations when Bryony placed a dish of scrambled eggs upon the table that evening, and her airy explanation that a kind farmer’s
wife had found Ned irresistible went unchallenged. After that, Bryony turned thief with careful deliberation. She took only enough for the four of them and only from places where her coin met grudging acceptance and bought little. Bacon and cheese began to make regular appearances on the table in the little cottage, ham bones enriched pots of broth. Only on one occasion did she overreach herself.

A cold chicken stood on a kitchen table, inviting possession. An old woman, grumbling about beggars who could not provide for themselves or their children, took six pennies in exchange for a cup of flour and a jug of milk. She had tottered off to fill the jug when Bryony whipped the chicken into her basket, grabbed Ned’s hand, and flew out of the kitchen and across the yard. A loud yell came from behind, and she looked over her shoulder to see the woman making remarkable speed in pursuit. Ned’s little legs were going like pistons, but he could not keep up with Bryony, who was obliged to swing him up onto her hip. Sobbing for breath, she rounded a corner in the lane and dived behind a bramble bush, burying them both and their ill-gotten gains in a muddy ditch. The woman came round the corner, swearing vigorously, but the lane was empty and she was clearly at the end of her strength. After what seemed an eternity to the cowering fugitives, she turned and went muttering back home.

Bryony began to laugh as relief not unmixed with satisfaction at her audacious coup swept over her. Ned started to dance, singing gleefully, and they made their way back to Charlotte, laughing and singing, the prospect of cold chicken for supper adding piquancy to the excitement of the aftermath.

“Where the devil did this come from?” Ben walked into the cottage at dusk, Charlie on his heels, and stared at the bird sitting proudly on the table.

“Sit down,” Bryony instructed. “I am going to demonstrate my carving skills. I spent many hours with the carving master in my other life and am determined to show how well spent they were.”

“Where
did it come from?” Benedict repeated. “Chickens cost a great deal more than six pennies.”

“I worked very hard for it,” said Bryony. “Do not question gift horses, Benedict. Sit down, or you will not have any.”

“Well, I don’t care where it came from,” Charlie stated fervently. “I think this is an occasion to broach the ale.” He filled three beakers from the keg that formed part of their rations and sat down, rubbing his hands together in hungry anticipation.

“Lass, where did it come from?” Ben sat down and laid his hand over hers, which was poised to begin cutting up the prize. “What do you mean, you worked very hard for it?” His voice was softly insistent, and she could feel the flush creeping up the back of her neck.

“Well, I did not sell myself, if that is what you’re afraid of.” She tried to laugh airily, but neither the laugh nor her casual shrug could make up for the fact that she would not meet his eye. “Ned and I coaxed and cajoled and pled starvation. But you do not want to hear about that.”

Benedict sighed. He didn’t want to picture the scene where his wife and the child who was also his responsibility had to go begging. The idea that Sir Edward Paget’s daughter was roaming the countryside like a mendicant, cadging and cozening to put food on a
Clare’s table, filled him with a dull anger, but he knew he could not reasonably forbid it; there seemed no other way to ensure an adequate food supply.

Bryony read his thoughts with little difficulty. “Please, Ben,” she said softly. “Enjoy it. Ned and I were so happy, and now you are spoiling it.”

“I am sorry.” He took a mouthful, but it tasted like ashes on his tongue. He chewed and swallowed and tried to smile, but the attempt fooled no one. Neither Bryony nor Charlie made any attempt to stop him when, the meal over, he pushed back his chair and went out into the night.

“That damned, stiff-necked Clare pride!” Bryony exclaimed in frustration. “It is hardly his fault that we have so little money. If it’s anyone’s, it’s mine. I made him spend so much on the march.”

“I don’t think he begrudged it, Bryony.” Charlie stacked the wooden platters. “There’s another meal on that carcass, I reckon.”

“Yes,” she said, as if the subject was of little interest. “I can boil it for soup.”

“Why don’t you go and find him.” Charlie gave her braid a friendly tug. “I’ll clean up in here.”

“You will have to take Ned to the privy before he goes to bed. He is afeard to go on his own in the dark.”

“But he is using it in the daytime now?” Charlie glanced at Ned, who, sublimely indifferent to the goings-on around him, was sitting on the floor by the hearth, playing with a set of pegs and a board that Ben had made for him.

“Not unless I’m watching him.” She chuckled, forgetting her sorrows for a minute. “He doesn’t seem to see
the point … not when there are all those bushes.” Still smiling, she went out to the deserted lane.

“What has amused you?”

“Oh!” She jumped. “You scared me, Ben. How could you tell I was smiling? You couldn’t see my face.”

“I don’t need to,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “You smile with your whole body when you’re amused.”

“Oh, Charlie and I were just laughing about Ned and his antipathy for the privy.” She leaned into the cradling arm. “We have to try to civilize him, or I don’t know how we shall manage when things become normal again.”

“What is normal?” Ben asked into the darkness above her head.

“Well, houses and proper privies and baths … things like that.”

“And sufficient food upon the table.”

Bryony chose not to respond, and there was a short silence as they stood in the lane in the January cold, the sky clear and bright—the same sky that also watched over another world, an ordinary world; the same sky that had watched over them both in the other world; the same sky that would watch over the future world, wherever and however it was fashioned.

“Enough said.” Benedict turned her into his embrace, holding the fragile line of her jaw between finger and thumb. “There is only one thing I wish for at this moment. Do you know what it is?”

Bryony nodded, her eyes gleaming mischievously in the starlight. “The cottage to ourselves. It is so frustrating not being able to make any noise.” She looked
around speculatively. “Do you think we will get the rheumatics if we stay out here?”

“We will on the grass.” The black eyes were dancing responsively now. “It’s icy cold and very damp. However …” He took her hand and marched with her into the churchyard. “There is a good broad oak tree over here.”

“We cannot make love in a tree,” Bryony protested, although her feet tripped along beside him.

“Not in it,” he said with another wicked gleam. “Against it.”

“Like a whore on the waterfront!” Bryony could not hide the ripple of excitement in her voice, even as she exclaimed in feigned shock at such an outrageous suggestion.

“I won’t ask what you know of whores and waterfronts,” Ben said, standing her firmly against the broad trunk of the tree. “But you have the right idea.” He pulled her skirt up and her drawers down in one movement, and Bryony felt herself begin to tremble as the deep recesses of her body moistened. She pressed herself against him with low murmurs of urgency, wanting him with a sudden, wild outpouring of lust, impatient as he freed himself from his clothes. She took him in one hand, stroking, squeezing, expressing her need, before guiding the erect, throbbing shaft within her hungry body, receiving him with a soft cry of pleasure.

“Sweet heaven!” Ben murmured. “To be inside you, my love, is to be buried in sweetness.” His hands were on her shoulders, holding her skirts up against them as he pressed deep within her, their eyes locked in wonder in the dim starlight.

“Nothing matters when we have this, does it?”
Bryony whispered. “Nothing could ever matter, could it?” Her eyes sought affirmation in his—affirmation that the trivialities of pride were as nothing compared with this magical combination of love and lust with which they were blessed.

“Nothing,” he said. His lips took hers, and she felt the rough bark of the tree rasp against her scalp under the possessive pressure of his mouth. Then the maelstrom took them and she shuddered against him, spent but fulfilled.

I
t was two days after their miraculous joining in the churchyard that peace was shattered, and all the affirmations in the world were rendered powerless against the force of an explosion that tore apart the fragile edifice of love, exposing the skeleton in all its grinning inevitability.

Benedict was standing outside headquarters, deep in conversation with Harry Lee, whose legion of Virginian cavalry held undisputed position as the army’s crack band of raiders and scouts. The two men had much in common when it came to skills and styles of warfare, and Harry was a frequent visitor to the cottage by the churchyard. It was a sunny morning, freakishly warm, and Benedict was feeling remarkably at peace … until the sounds of commotion broke upon them.

Ben instantly identified Ned’s high-pitched shriek. He swung round to look down the street. The child was running as if all the devils in hell were after him, yelling at the top of his voice, and, indeed, pounding after him
was a burly trooper whose virulent curses and scarlet face were ample evidence of Ned’s need to flee.