The Passage (36 page)

The road to Portsmouth was more traveled than I might have imagined with numerous wagons piled with various goods moving at glacial speed, carriages carrying naval personnel, families en route to somewhere, and mounted riders like us.  I was eternally grateful that we weren’t traveling by carriage.  I couldn’t begin to imagine being cooped up in a wooden box with no ventilation on a warm day like today. 

By late afternoon, I was exhausted and achy, but I kept quiet, following Hugo’s mount through the throng.  We only had a few more hours to go and I was determined to get to the port city today.  There was safety in numbers, and the amount of people traveling in the same direction gave us the best protection.  No one paid attention to two travelers among the multitudes. 

The slanted rays of the sun were no longer as bright as the evening approached, mellowing the landscape around us and painting everything in a golden haze.  I could just make out the shape of the Round Tower rising behind the solid barrier of the city walls.  Portsmouth was a fortified city, one that had been attacked repeatedly over the centuries and had withstood admirably every time.  The tower and the walls had been rebuilt time after time by various monarchs, starting with wood and dirt and ending with solid stone, which greeted us now. 

I sighed with relief as we finally rode through the city gates.  I hoped we would be able to find accommodation as so many people seemed to have the same idea, but Hugo beckoned me to follow him down the High Street and away from the crowd pouring through the gates which would be closing in an hour or two.  He stopped in front of a place called the “Greyhound” and went inside to check if there might be a room available.  For the right price, there was, so we surrendered our horses to the groom and went in. 

I hardly paid attention to my surroundings as I collapsed on the bed and closed my eyes, my back vibrating with tension after hours in the saddle, my inner thighs on fire from the friction against the horse.  The bed was not exactly comfortable, and the room was so stuffy I could barely breathe, but at least it was accommodation.  Hugo forced open the window and a rush of briny sea air filled the room, dispelling the sour stink of previous occupants and the smell of mouse droppings, which were probably hiding under the bed. 

“How in the world were you able to get a room so quickly?” I asked, stretching luxuriously now that my back had stopped convulsing. 

“This is not the most popular inn in town,” Hugo replied, as he reached under the bed for the chamber pot. 

“Why?  It’s no worse than the rest
—
better even.”  The stone house looked solid and respectable, and the smells emanating from the kitchen made my mouth water. 

“People have superstitions about certain places,” Hugo said, shrugging his shoulders.

“What kind of superstitions?”  I asked warily.  “Is this place haunted?”

“Some say so.  The Duke of Buckingham was murdered here in 1628 by John Felton -– stabbed to death.  Not that he didn’t deserve it, that villainous reprobate.  Some say Buckingham’s ghost still haunts the tavern, unable to rest after the violent manner of his death.”  Hugo gave me a smile and kissed my forehead.  “But, we don’t hold with such nonsense, do we, my sweet?  Hence, we get a room.”

“I don’t care if Buckingham comes during the night and climbs in between us.  I’m not budging from this bed for at least twelve hours, but I wouldn’t say no to some supper.  Do you think I could convince you to go downstairs and see what you can procure?”

“Your servant, madam,” Hugo replied with an exaggerated bow and made himself scarce.  I hoped that whatever he got would be plentiful.  I’d always had a healthy appetite, but once the nausea abated a bit, I was hungry around the clock, craving solid food rather than little snacks.  I hadn’t gained any weight yet, but I’d have to watch myself, especially in France where food was so rich and delicious.  I suddenly giggled to myself.  Here I was, in a naval town crawling with soldiers
—
with a man who had a price on his head
—
the only thing standing between him and an arrest being a bottle of dye and some colored lenses, and I was worrying about my weight. 
That was just too “twenty-first century,
I thought as I reclined back on the bed, hoping Hugo wouldn’t be long. 

I stood on the quay of Portsmouth, my eyes shielded against the sun by my hand as I took in the hulking shape of the
Mathilde
, a merchant vessel which would carry us to France.  It would be sailing on the tide in two days’ time, and we would be in France by this time next week.  Hugo had been lucky to find a ship, since there seemed to be no other vessel scheduled to leave for France anytime soon.  The
Mathilde
wasn’t going to Le Havre, as Hugo might have liked, but it really didn’t matter.  Once we docked, we’d travel by coach overland to Paris, where Hugo had acquaintances who’d take us in until we found a home of our own.  All that was left to do was to sell the horses and pay the inn bill.

Hugo took me by the arm, and we strolled along the quay in the direction of the nearest inn.  “Let’s have a drink to celebrate our imminent departure,” Hugo said.  “I’m parched.”

I didn’t really want anything except a nice cup of tea, which wasn’t on offer, but I walked along with Hugo, happy to see his relaxed smile and eager for the two days to pass quickly so we could finally sail away from this place where Hugo was constantly in danger. 

We found a table in the corner, away from the rowdy sailors who were enjoying tankards of ale and singing loudly, their voices anything but sober, but still strangely harmonious.  Hugo ordered a tankard of ale and I asked for some apple cider, the least alcoholic drink I could have at a tavern.  I took a sip, enjoying the taste of fermented apple on my lips.  It was cold and refreshing, a nice change to the milk I’d been drinking since coming back to the past.  The innkeeper thought it was strange that Mrs. Tully wanted nothing but milk, but kept his counsel, charging us more for the milk than he would have for fine French brandy. 

Hugo leaned back in his chair and took a swig of his ale, his face suddenly growing alert as the conversation of two men at the next table reached us in the lull between sailors’ songs. 

“You just came from Cranley, you say?” one of the men asked. 

“Oh, aye, quite a to do there last night.  It seems Lord Hugo Everly was finally apprehended, that traitorous knave.  Just walked into the tavern, cocky as you please, and ordered himself an ale.  You can just imagine the hullabaloo that caused, after him disappearing like that a few months ago.  Must have thought he was free and clear now that Monmouth was hacked to pieces.”

“So, what happened?” his companion asked, eager to hear the story, his eyes round with curiosity.

“What do you think?  The soldiers just happened to be there, nursing ales of their own, them having nothing to do but skulk around the village in the hopes of that blackguard showing up.  They arrested him on the spot with the intention of taking him to London the following day.  And you know what the very best part of it all was?” the man asked, relishing the telling of his story, “the fool had the gall to tell the soldiers he wasn’t Hugo Everly.  Kept insisting his name was Maximilian.  Him, sitting there in all his glory, claiming to be someone else.  Why, only the bluebloods are mad enough to think they can get away with such tomfoolery.  They hauled him right off, they did, and a good thing too if you ask me.  There’s no greater crime than treason, is there?”

I hardly noticed the spilled cider pooling on the table and making a rivulet of golden brown as it ran off the table.  Hugo sat perfectly still, his face set in a mask of determination I knew only too well.  He avoided my gaze, turning instead to the window where the bustle of the quay was dying down as the day faded into evening, and the dusky hues of twilight settled on the town.  I couldn’t move, afraid that if I did, I’d alter this moment and everything would fall apart, like a broken vessel; fragments of glass flying everywhere as the glass hit the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces which could never be put back together. 

“We must go back,” Hugo said, his pained expression telling me that this wasn’t an easy decision for him to make.  “We can’t let Max take the fall.”

“He tried to kill you,” I hissed at Hugo, desperate to make him change his mind.  I didn’t want Max to be held accountable for Hugo’s actions, but I knew what going back would mean, and I couldn’t bear to think about it.

“We have to go back,” Hugo repeated. 

“And do what? Turn yourself in?”

“I won’t turn myself in, but I can’t let him be executed in my place.  It wouldn’t be right, Neve, and you know it.”

Yes, I knew it wouldn’t be right, but every cell in my body screamed in protest, knowing that there was no possible way this could end well for any of us.  I suddenly felt very cold, the full implications of what Hugo was planning to do finally sinking into my resistant brain. 

Hugo took my quivering hands in his, but didn’t say anything.  What was there to say?

Max desperately tried to hold on to the reins of the horse with his fettered hands, the chains making a jangling noise that reverberated right into his bones.  The captain looked well pleased with himself, riding ahead, his back straight and his helmet glinting in the morning sun and blinding Max with its glare, his sidekick riding behind and bringing up the rear.  Max’s ribs felt as if they would crack from the beating he received last night; every breath was agony, every mile hell.  The more he denied being Hugo, the harder they hit him. 

Max’s mind was numb, partially from the pain of his injuries and partially from shock.  He’d lived a pampered and safe life, always knowing that there was nothing that couldn’t be solved with money and connections.  He had no connections in the seventeenth century, or money for that matter.  There was no one to call, no one to ask for help.  He was completely alone and helpless.  He’d been arrested on a charge of treason, abduction, and attempted murder.  There was only one outcome for this situation.  Death.

To be Continued in Wonderland,

Book 2 of the Wonderland Series

I lay curled on the filthy floor, the dirty layer of straw doing nothing to either cushion my body or absorb the horrible stench of urine and feces that seemed to seep out of every crevice of the cell.  There was no light save the flickering of a torch somewhere in the bowels of the prison.  The walls wept moisture, and the moans and screams of the other prisoners punctuated by the metallic rattle of fetters echoed through the cavernous space, sounding like nothing less than Hell. 

I had no idea how long I’d been in that horrible place.  It could have been days or it could have been months.  Time seemed to stop, the days a succession of hours during which I went from terror to blackest despair and back to terror again.  My muscles were sore from shaking, both from fear and from the chill of lying on the stone floor, and my mind numb from feverishly searching for some way out and praying for help which I now knew would never come.

I’d started having hallucinations, seeing faces of people I’d loved and domestic scenes of Hugo and me; at home with our baby, a happy little family, healthy and safe.  There would be no home and there would be no baby.  Not now.  I curled into a ball, bringing my legs up to my rounded belly and wrapped my arms around myself.  I could feel the slight flutter of the child inside me as I wrapped my body around it in a last act of maternal protection.  Then I closed my eyes and went into the light.

             
I hope you enjoyed the first book of the Wonderland Series.  Like Neve Ashley, I’ve always been a fan of Charles II.  He was one of the few English monarchs who supported religious tolerance and only wanted to rule in peace.  Unfortunately for him, Charles II hadn’t had much luck.  He lost his father to the executioner’s ax and spent most of his youth in exile; a king without a throne or a country.  Charles was invited back to England after the demise of the Republic, then married a woman who, despite his well-known virility, couldn’t give him an heir.  Had Charles had a legitimate son countless lives would have been saved, not only that of his oldest illegitimate offspring, the Duke of Monmouth.  

The lack of an heir resulted in several failed rebellions starting with the Monmouth Rebellion in 1685, and ending with the Scottish Rebellion of 1745 when thousands of Highlanders were slaughtered at Culloden Moor, putting an end to the clans forever and making it abundantly clear that there would never again be a Stuart king.

I found it difficult not to sympathize with Charles II.  He had several sons, but none who were born within wedlock, leaving him powerless to stop his brother James from becoming the next king of England.  For Charles, the succession became quite a quandary.  James was next in line to the throne, but his devout Catholicism was not something that sat well with the mostly Protestant population of the country.  There were many who feared what his reign would bring and hoped that he would die without issue.  The birth of James’s son ensured a Catholic succession and sealed his fate, forcing James and his family into exile, never to return to the shores of England. 

I’d like to mention that there’s no evidence that the Duke of Norfolk, who was a disgruntled Catholic like Hugo Everly, was ever involved in the Monmouth Rebellion.  His association with Hugo and the Duke of Monmouth was entirely the product of creative license on my part.  Nor is there a crypt at St. Nicolas church in Cranleigh.  Again, my imagination.  There is, however, a little gargoyle which was the inspiration for the Cheshire cat for Lewis Carroll, which led to the associations with Alice in Wonderland for my characters. 

As someone who wishes time travel were possible, I’m always open to a trip down the rabbit hole, hence the name of the series.  I hope you will check out the rest of the books.  In the meantime, you can find me at www.irinashapiro.com.