The Passage (20 page)

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered, as if reluctant to disturb Jem.  “It’s not your fault.”  That made me cry even harder because I felt as if it were.  I’d done what I believed to be right, but what had I accomplished besides this terrible carnage?  I reached out and took Jem’s limp hand.  It was limp, but still warm, and as I moved my fingers toward his wrist, I felt a weak pulse. 

“He’s alive,” I whispered urgently.  “He’s still alive.”  I sprang to my feet and grabbed the cup Finch had been drinking from.  It contained what smelled like brandy.  I held the cup to Jem’s lips, urging him to take a sip.  He didn’t, but the smell of alcohol seemed to revive him, and he finally swallowed a little and began to cough.

“Jemmy?” Hugo called out softly to him.  “Jemmy, can you hear me?”

I nearly sobbed with relief when I saw Jem’s eyelids flutter.  He was still very pale, but color was coming back into his face as he tried to reply.  He couldn’t form the words, but he raised one small hand to Hugo’s face and touched his cheek before closing his eyes again.  His breathing seemed to be more even now, but he’d slipped into sleep.

“Don’t let him go to sleep,” I said as I struggled to my feet.  “He’s concussed.  He needs to stay alert.” 

Hugo nodded and tried to rouse Jem, but he was dead to the world, his small body slumped in Hugo’s arms.  “Neve, grab your things and get Frances.  We are leaving,” Hugo said without looking at me.  “Now!”

I threw one last look at Lionel Finch as I fled from the room.  He was still gasping, but his color was almost back to normal.  His eyes were closed as he lay curled on the floor, but I knew that he was very much aware of everything that was happening.  He was simply buying time in case Hugo changed his mind and decided to finish the job.  I didn’t have any time or compassion to spare for Finch, so I ran from the room, dimly aware of the pain in my middle and the pounding of my heart against my bruised ribs.  I knew with an instinctive certainty that Hugo would have killed Finch had I not intervened.  What I’d seen on his face was cold purpose.  Another minute and he would have choked Finch to death, driven by fury, fear for Jem, and probably some regard for me. 

It had been my interference in the first place that put Hugo in this situation
, I thought as I choked back tears.  A man might not be persecuted for beating his wife to death, but he would certainly be persecuted for murder, especially of someone as wealthy as Lionel Finch.  Hugo could have been hanged because of me, which would have been very ironic since my initial intention had been to save his life
—
not endanger it.  I didn’t know what the penalty for attempted murder was, but I was sure that Lionel Finch would find out as soon as he was able, as he would no doubt accuse Hugo of abducting his wife. 

I put my frantic thoughts on hold as I ran back to the bedroom, got dressed and helped Frances out of bed.  She was shaking from shock, her face white from the pain in her belly, but I helped her dress and led her downstairs.  I’d noticed several curious servants skulking in the corridor, but they were galvanized into action as soon as they saw us, going about their business as if nothing was amiss, their anxious gazes a testament to their fear of the master. 

Hugo’s men were already in the dooryard, the horses saddled and bags packed.  Hugo must have gone out to the stables to wake them when I confronted Lionel Finch in the parlor.  What if he hadn’t come back in time?  I couldn’t bear to think of what Lionel Finch would have done to me.  He wouldn’t have stopped with one kick, of that I was sure.  He was furious and slaking his rage on women was what he did best.  He would have smashed my face in, possibly even killed me, a thought that left me shaking with post-traumatic nerves.

“Are you all right?” Hugo asked me as he helped me mount my horse.  “Are you hurt?  I should have enquired sooner, but the sight of Jem lying there just obliterated all thought from my mind,” he explained. 

“I’m all right,” I lied.  “Thank you.  There’s no need to apologize.”  I wasn’t all right, but all I wanted was to get away from this place and put as much distance as possible between myself and Lionel Finch.  Hugo gave me a curt nod, before turning to Frances who looked as if she were about to swoon.  Archie was standing right behind her in case she fainted, ready to catch her if necessary, but not presumptuous enough to lay his hands on her before the need arose.

Hugo lifted Frances onto his horse, then vaulted into the saddle behind her, putting a protective arm around her middle as he took the reins.  Frances flinched but didn’t utter a sound, just closed her eyes and leaned against Hugo.  She was white as a sheet; her golden lashes fanned against her cheek as tears silently slid down her face.  I couldn’t begin to imagine what she must be thinking or feeling.  There was no way this would turn out well, no matter what happened, and I was sure Frances was well aware of that, as was everyone else, judging by the solemn look on their faces. 

I was glad to see that Jem was awake.  He looked like a rag doll as he sat slumped against Peter’s wide chest, but he gave me a weak smile before closing his eyes against the morning sun.  His head was haphazardly bandaged, but at least it didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore as Peter’s doublet was clean, at least of blood.  Jem’s mule was tied to Archie’s horse and walked obediently, possibly relieved not to have to carry Jem’s slight body.  The hooves squelched in the thawed mud as we made our way out of the yard.  The last thing I saw as I turned my horse toward the gate was Lionel Finch’s face in the window.  Hugo had made an enemy for life, of that I was certain.

We rode in absolute silence for over an hour.  Frances had dozed off; her face pale against her blue cloak despite the rosy glow of the sun’s rays.  She looked even younger when asleep, her blonde ringlets framing her face and rounded cheeks in a way reminiscent of a cherub in a painting.  I tried not to look at Hugo for fear that he would reprimand me for what I’d done, but he just stared ahead, his hand tense on the reins.  I wanted to know what he was thinking, but was too afraid to ask.  Images of the events of the morning kept flashing before my eyes, my nerves stretched to the breaking point and my back so rigid that it felt as if it would shatter like glass.  My eyes burned from lack of sleep, and my head ached terribly, the nucleus of the pain somewhere right behind the eyes, the pain radiating into my temples. 

The men rode behind us.  Normally, they talked between themselves, their repartee filled with jibes and jokes, but this morning they were silent and watchful, alert for possible pursuit and retribution.  There didn’t appear to be any, but it would have been foolish to relax, not that any of us could. 

“Where are we going?” I asked at last, unable to keep silent any longer.  I cringed as Hugo turned to face me.  His face was battered from the fight; his left cheekbone badly bruised and still oozing blood; his lip swollen where it’d been busted, and his expression wary and a trifle blank.  It took him a moment to process the question since he couldn’t seem to gather his wits enough to answer.

“I don’t know,” he said at last.  “I need time to think.  We must see Frances safe.  There will be hell to pay for what I’ve done, and I must make sure she’s out of Finch’s grasp.  If he gets her back, he’ll kill her.  And we must see to Jem.  He requires a medick.”

“I’m sorry, Hugo,” I whispered, unsure of what I was apologizing for.  I knew the brawl had been my fault, but there was nothing I could have done differently.  Looking at the frail girl in the saddle, I couldn’t be sorry for interfering, but I was remorseful for the position I’d put Hugo in.  Of course, now there was no question of Finch’s support for Monmouth’s cause and Lionel, being the vicious cur that he was, would want some kind of retribution for the injury he suffered, humiliation, and the loss of his wife.  I had no idea what he would do, but I was sure we wouldn’t have long to wait to find out. 

Hugo suddenly stopped at a crossroads and looked to his right, his face thoughtful.  I looked at the weathered cross leaning drunkenly to the side with a single name scratched into the crossbar – “Agnes.”  Suicides were buried at a crossroads, denied a proper Christian burial in hallowed ground; their souls cast adrift for all eternity, their final destination Hell.  Frances would no doubt end up like this in time, if her husband didn’t kill her first, and Hugo was likely reminded of that as he noticed the cross.  Frances seemed to shrink into herself as she saw what Hugo was looking at, her face full of fear.  She hadn’t uttered a word since we left, but I was sure she was wondering what Hugo was planning to do now that he’d taken her from her husband.  He could hardly take her to Everly Manor since that would be the first place anyone would look for her, and if they found her, she’d be returned to Finch to face the consequences of her escape. 

Hugo seemed to make up his mind and turned his horse to the right, silently followed by the men.  I trotted behind him, eager for the sound of his voice.  I wanted him to talk to me, to reassure me that I’d done the right thing, and he wasn’t angry with me; I needed his support, but he remained quiet, lost in his own thoughts.  He didn’t seem angry, just tired, in pain, and preoccupied.  I slowed down my horse and waited for Peter to come alongside me.  Jem rested against his chest, his eyes partially open as he stared straight ahead.  Peter had wrapped a blanket around Jem to keep him warm, and his little body was lost in the folds, his face a stark contrast to the dark colors of the wool.

“Jem?” I called out softly.  “How are you?”

“My head hurts something awful,” he replied.  His voice sounded shaky and another wave of guilt and fear swept over me.  Jem needed all the equipment and skill of a hospital emergency unit; instead, he would be lucky to get some medicine woman or a charlatan claiming to have medical knowledge.  What could they possibly do for him other than give him some nasty concoction and proclaim him cured?  He must be suffering from a terrible headache, disorientation, and probably some nausea.  Being on a horse in bright sunlight was torture, but Jem took it like a man, shutting his eyes against the light and taking deep breaths of air to combat the queasiness. 

“Jem, thank you for standing up for me.  You were very brave,” I said, but he seemed to have fallen asleep.

We rode on for several more hours.  I was thirsty, hungry and bone-weary from a restless night and all the emotional upheaval, but it was too soon to stop.  Pursuit was still possible, so we had to keep moving.  Frances had woken up with a start a little while ago, her face a mask of panic until she saw me and began to relax.  She didn’t ask anything, just accepted a drink from Hugo’s leather flask and slumped back against his chest.  She appeared too tired to even speak, almost indifferent to where we were taking her as long as it was far away from home.  Hugo murmured something to her, and I saw her lips stretch into a tiny smile as she nodded and closed her eyes once again.  I wished he would say something to me.

Sometime after noon, we passed a small village where Hugo sent Archie into the inn to buy some bread, sausage, and ale.  We ate in the saddle, not taking the time to stop in case of pursuit.  I overheard Archie explaining something to Hugo, but I was too tired and upset to listen.  I couldn’t stand his silence.  I would rather have him berate me and rage at me than shut me out this way.  I wanted to know where we were heading and what we would do once we got there, but Hugo kept his counsel, taking his eyes off the road only to check on Jem, then turning away again, his eyes shadowed with concern.

By the time the sun began to dip toward the horizon, I had exhausted myself with worry.  Hugo still hadn’t said a word, his silent profile a constant reprimand as he stared straight ahead.  He took a narrow track that led into the woods, motioning us with his hand to follow.  The woods were dense, the darkness gathering in the hollows and thickets, creeping across the ground and enveloping the thick growth in a cloak of night.  The night was full of sounds: a screech of an owl, a cry of a fox, the snapping of a twig as something ran in the underbrush and rustled the leaves in its wake.  I pulled my cloak closer, suddenly scared.  Where was Hugo going?  Was he planning to make camp in the woods where we were less visible? It was too cold to sleep outside, but stopping at an inn made us vulnerable.  I was sure that Lionel Finch could gather dozens of men from his estate if he wanted to.  We had only four men.

I could glimpse the moon between the bare branches of the trees, its comforting light the only thing standing between us and pitch darkness.  A terrible wave of nostalgia washed over me, making me wish for home with such overwhelming intensity that I felt a squeezing in my heart that took my breath away.  I was so lonely and afraid; so isolated from these men who’d been silent all day.  Frances didn’t seem to mind.  She’d been in and out of consciousness all afternoon.  I couldn’t begin to imagine the pain she endured as we rode, her stomach a constant reminder of last night.  What if Finch had damaged her internal organs and she was hemorrhaging?  That thought put paid to my self-pity, and I glanced at her immobile profile.  Perhaps that’s why she was so languid.  In either case, there was nothing I could do to help.  She was in God’s hands now, as was Jem. 

I nearly choked on the thought.  I would never have expressed such a sentiment in the twenty-first century, but here, it seemed right and true.  There was no hospital to take them to, no x-ray machine to assess the damage, no surgeon to operate, and no painkillers to give.  Hugo gave Frances succor for her battered soul, alcohol for the pain, and hope of escape from her marriage.  There was nothing to give Jem other than time.  The rest was unknown. 

I nearly cried with relief when I saw the high wall of some kind of settlement appear in a clearing.  The moon shone brighter here, illuminating a small door with a metal grill set at eye level and blocked by a wooden panel.  Hugo motioned to Archie, who slid off his horse and banged on the door until a frightened face appeared behind the grill.  I couldn’t hear what was being said, but it took several minutes for Archie to convince the person on the other side to open the gate and let us pass.  The woman who let us in was dressed like a nun, her weathered face framed by her white veil, the only bright spot in her otherwise black attire that blended into the night. 

I looked around in surprise. There were several wooden buildings clustered around a large yard.  Sounds of animals came from the barn, the pungent smell of manure and hay drifting through the slits between the planks.  Directly ahead was what appeared to be a chapel, and to the left of the chapel was a long, low building with several tiny windows – a dormitory perhaps.  The men dismounted and allowed the horses a drink from the trough by the well, while Hugo lifted Frances out of the saddle and carried her into the hut indicated by the nun.   Peter followed with Jem, who appeared to be asleep still, his feet dangling from under the blanket.

I sat down on a bench, saddle-sore and heartsick.  Hugo hadn’t so much as glanced at me as he walked away and disappeared inside the building.

“All right, Mistress Ashley?” Archie asked, seeing my despondent state. 

I nodded, unwilling to discuss my feelings with him.  “What is this place, Archie?”

“It’s a closed religious order for women, Mistress,” Archie replied as he led away the horses, presumably to the stable to be fed.  I just remained sitting on the bench, alone and forgotten until a young woman dressed as a nun came to fetch me.

“Good evening.  I’m Sister Julia.  Please come with me, Mistress Ashley,” she said.  Her voice was melodious and soothing as she spoke to me.  “Your young wards are with our healer now.  Sister Angela is very knowledgeable.  If anyone can restore them to health, it’s Sister Angela.  We’ve already had our supper, but there’s plenty left.  Lord Everly asked that you have supper and a bed for the night,” the nun informed me.

“What about him and the men?” I asked, surprised.

“Oh, they can’t stay here; men are not allowed.  They will make camp outside the wall, but we will make sure they are fed and comfortable.”  The young nun smiled at me as she beckoned me to follow.  I was led to a room with a long table flanked by benches, which was the communal dining room.  It was lit by several thick candles, their light welcoming after the darkness of the forest.

“Here you are,” the nun said.  She handed me a bowl of rich stew, a large chunk of brown bread and a cup of cold milk.  “You must be hungry after your journey.  I will show you to a cell after you’ve eaten where you’ll be able to wash and rest for the night.” 

I didn’t think I could eat, but the smell of the stew awakened my senses and reminded me that I’d only a small piece of bread and sausage hours ago.  I finished the stew and the bread and gulped down the milk, thirsty after a day in the saddle.  I was glad the men would at least get a hot meal, even if they had to sleep outdoors.  They were probably starving and exhausted.  I was so tired I swayed as the nun led me to my room in the low building I’d seen earlier. 

The cell was tiny, with a narrow cot covered with a straw mattress and coarse bedding.  There was a low stool to put the candlestick on and a pitcher and ewer for washing.  The water was freezing cold, but I washed my hands and face, and used a wet cloth to wipe down other parts of my body.  I would have killed for a hot bath, but this was better than nothing.  At least I felt a little cleaner.  I didn’t even bother undressing as I fell onto the cot, murmured a heartfelt prayer for Jem and Frances, and tumbled into a dreamless sleep.