Brethren Page 4

  I began to pack. The growing loneliness did not burn so much as it froze. I grew numb. Even though it was Alonso I was deserting, it felt as it had with many of the women I had taken as lovers. It was morning and I wanted to be away with the changing of the heavenly watch. I wanted Florence behind me, since there was nothing in it to hold me anymore. I left everything except the money, my weapons, and a few changes of warm clothing.

  Many would think me mad to consider crossing Europe alone on horseback carrying a small fortune, especially while riding a fine horse. I may be rash, but I am not naïve. I would avoid the inns and well-traveled roads. The hardships of the journey would serve to buff the mettle of my soul. This would serve me well, as I would need to know what I was made of before entering my father’s house again.

  Less than an hour later, I sat upon Hercules and chewed the remains of my hurriedly-snatched repast. I rode to a bridge over the Arno and watched the sun rise. The angle was wrong, due to the difference in direction from the night before. The river did not glow gold as it had burned red. I rode west anyway.

  Perhaps the Gods had been trying to tell me something, after all.

  Two

  Wherein I Return To England

  To my dismay, I was apprised in a little market in Turin that France was at war with England. I abandoned my identity as Ulysses, adopted Austrian papers and accent, and headed for Paris anyway, as I had little recourse.

  Once in that fair city, in which I had spent several years after first leaving England, I located a fine horseman I had known and made him a gift of my Moorish stallion. He was pleased to have so beautiful a horse for breeding, and I was content to know that Hercules would spend the rest of his days frolicking in green pastures and mounting mares.

  I, on the other hand, was forced to make a choice between a long barge ride down the Seine to the sea, where I would have to place myself at the mercy of smugglers or pirates to reach England – or a miserable coach ride north to Antwerp to book legitimate passage across the Channel. As I knew smugglers would have little incentive not to slit my throat, even if I gave them all of my money upon boarding, I chose the least comfortable route. I bought a pillow to give some comfort to my arse, and a bottle to make the conversation and odors of my fellow passengers somewhat palatable.

  I finally arrived on English soil at London in the last week of November, 1666, per the Julian calendar: which, now that I had returned to my native soil, I was forced to adopt once again. A storm had harried the crossing and it had been quite violent, remarked upon by even the sailors. The following ride up the Thames had been exceedingly wet and cold, as the storm had delivered copious amounts of sleet. I hoped fervently I would never have to board another vessel, but I knew that to be folly. I could not imagine staying in England for the rest of my life, and since she was an island, some amount of sea travel would be required to escape her yet again.

  Though it was amusing and comfortable to hear and speak English again, England was much as I had remembered: cold and wet. The sight of London sank my spirits even further. As I traveled, I had heard that much of London burned on September second: which had been a mere week before I departed Florence, even with the difference in calendars. Hearing and seeing are two very different things, though; and I was absolutely stunned at the devastation still in evidence when I arrived almost three months after the event.

  Acres and acres of the city were missing, the buildings reduced to heaps of rubble. I almost expected them to be still smoldering; but no, we were well past that. Despite the missing buildings, or perhaps because of them, the streets were filled with activity. Wagons rumbled by, loaded with debris to be removed, while others arrived with building supplies. Not everything was being replaced immediately, but the sound of saws and hammers was an omnipresent din muffled by the low clouds.

  I wondered how the people who had lost everything were getting on. I doubted the King had opened the treasury to feed and house them all. Thankfully fewer had been displaced than might have been, due to the plague having paid England a visit this year. The wealthy had escaped the city to avoid the Black Death, and the poor had been decimated by the reaper well before the fire.

  All in all, I saw little of the Restoration flowering of London that others had told me of. It was as drab and dreary as I had left it during the Interregnum.

  I had known this great city. Though I had still been little more than a youth, I had frequented London prior to my departure from England, as our family kept a house there and Shane and I had been bored boys with money and arrogance in abundance. We had bemoaned Cromwell’s refusal to allow truly amusing pursuits in the city, such as theater and galleries. Well, at least I had. Shane could not have cared less for those things. He enjoyed gambling and whoring far more than art. Still, even without advertised sources for boyish amusements, we had oft managed to find enough trouble and debauchery to keep ourselves entertained.

  I bought a bay mare of a pleasant disposition and, after wandering a bit, managed to locate the place where I believed our family’s townhouse had stood. Without any remembered landmarks, it took me a good deal of time to locate the street and block. The three-story building was gone, leaving nothing but a rectangle of bricks and foundation stones and the bases of the chimneys. Apparently my father had not yet chosen to rebuild.

  I wondered at that. I could not remember when the House of Lords met and when he would need to stay in town. I could not remember a good many things of that nature. I had never been interested enough in them to commit them to memory.

  I wondered if they were well, my father, mother, and two sisters. Had they fallen to the plague? I had written my uncle on occasion, and four times his letters had found me during my travels. The last one had been over a year ago. He had said they were well then, but regarding the devastation I rode through now, I realized how very long ago that was.

  The long road across the Alps and France had awarded me ample time to wonder what I would find here, and what my reception might be. My sisters would be nineteen and seventeen years of age. I was not sure of my father’s exact date of birth, but I thought he might be fifty-two. I recalled that he had remarked once that he had been twenty-six, the age I was now, when I was born. That in itself was a disturbing thought. In my mind, he was an old man now, yet what did that make me? I felt I had not aged much at all, even though I knew ten years had passed.

  My second cousin, Jacob Shane, would be twenty-seven now. I could not envision him as such. To me, he was still the lad of seventeen I had last seen. And in truth, though I had thickened across the shoulders a little, I still saw myself as the scrawny boy I had been. Some of that was due to my never growing as much as I expected. My father was a large man, wide of shoulder and deep of chest, yet I took after my mother’s family. They were lean and not necessarily tall.

  Deep in thought, I began to ride to my uncle’s house at Dunfield, a good day’s journey to the north. It was late afternoon; and as I set out, the chill was already biting through my cloak and breeches. As dusk approached, I decided warmth might trump caution and I might wish to consider a room at an inn. I was no longer riding an expensive mount and my clothes were quite road-worn. I did not look wealthy in the slightest. Unfortunately, I was already following my usual habits of avoiding swashbucklers, by not traveling on the highway that ran more directly from London. The little road I was on wound through the Hertfordshire countryside, and there was not an inn in sight.

  Thus, I considered myself lucky when I spied a dilapidated barn well off the road. The surrounding field was not cultivated, and I saw no houses nearby. I rode down the overgrown path cautiously and saw no one. However, I heard the rustle of movement inside the aged building after I dismounted to investigate the door. I thought it an animal, until I heard a furtive whisper. I drew both pistols and held my ground. If they wished to shoot me, they could have already done so. It seemed an unlikely place for highwaymen, anyway.

  “Hello?” I queried. “I do not mean t
o trespass. I am merely seeking shelter for the night.”

  “Do not shoot,” a voice said, with the awkward catch and squeak of a boy on the verge of manhood. There was a snicker and a muffled curse, followed by the unmistakable sound of flesh hitting flesh and then a squawked “ow!” A youth emerged from the canted opening between the sagging doors. He shot a glare back over his shoulder. I guessed he was the speaker, as he seemed caught somewhere betwixt boy and man.

  I pointed both pistols skyward and said, “Greetings,” in my friendliest voice.

  “What da ya want?” the boy asked, doing his utmost to keep his voice steady.

  “I am just on the road and in search of a place to spend the night. I will move on if this structure is occupied, which apparently it is.”

  He regarded me as if I were daft. “Where ya be headed?”

  “Dunfield.”

  “Are ya lost? The highway be o’er yonder.”

  “If I were on the highway, you would be older and armed.”

  He considered my words and nodded thoughtfully. “Tisn’t much ’ere abouts, lest ya ’ave ta hide from farmers real careful.”

  “Well, that is a pity,” I sighed and returned the pistols to my belt. The moon was well waned, not that it would have shown through the damn clouds anyway. Riding on once night fell would be difficult. And finding a place to hide from farmers, as he suggested, would be even more so. Not that I felt great need to hide from farmers. Providing them explanation for my presence could prove tedious, though.

  The boy seemed to work his courage up as the weapons were taken out of play. “Do ya ’ave food? Ta share? You can stay if’n ya ’ave victuals.”

  He was eyeing my horse and few bags. By the looks of his arms, which were almost skeletal, I gathered he would just as soon eat my mount as ride it.

  I nodded. “I bought more provisions than I need for such a short trip. I would be happy to share in exchange for a safe place to sleep.”

  He understood my meaning. “We’ll cause ya no trouble.”

  “Then we have an agreement.” I eyed the building. “Is there an opening large enough for my horse?”

  He shrugged and grinned. “Aye, ’alf the back wall be missin’.”

  With a chuckle, I led my horse round, and entered to find a band of eight boys lurking in the shadows and straw. The one I had been speaking with, Big John they called him, was the leader and the oldest. The youngest could not have been more than six or so. They were thin and barefoot, with tattered clothes. I wondered why they were not begging on a city street instead of hiding in a barn in the countryside. Then I remembered most of the city was missing, and there had been the plague.

  We huddled around a small and carefully maintained fire, and supped on a pair of rabbits the boys had, and the sausage, cheese, and bread I was carrying. To pass the time, I asked why they were there. They told me a number of tales. All had been thrown out by their families, or orphaned outright by the plague or other misfortune. They huddled in this barn due to everything from the fear of press gangs to the threat of gaol or death.

  I knew well enough there was no place for them. I guessed they had brethren all over England. Times were difficult. There was little honest employment to be had, even for those who were skilled, and people were starving as a result. Unless a family worked the land and had need of an extra pair of hands, young boys they could not apprentice off were not worth feeding for many families.

  I looked at the little ring of soot-smeared faces in the flicker of firelight, and wondered what would become of them. I pondered what I could do to aid their cause. They trusted no one, and I knew of no one I would trust with their welfare. I was also sure they would resent, if not rebel against, any attempt to tame them now that they had gone feral.

  I dozed cautiously that night, because I knew if they were truly cunning they would rob me in my sleep. And indeed, I found myself being observed for a lapse in vigilance several times. Even though I was weary to the bone, I grudgingly applauded them.

  Between naps, I recalled many a thing my tutor, Rucker, had said concerning social classes and the duties and responsibilities of nobility. My father would have been absolutely appalled if he had ever heard much of what Rucker imparted to my impressionable ears. I had learned that setting wolves to guard sheep is never good for the sheep. That lesson had been reinforced by observing and listening to my father when he held discourse with his peers. Wolves all, they cared not for those they governed. They made policies to suit themselves, and complained bitterly when any attempted to defy them. Even under Cromwell, when they had not quite maintained the power they had before, they had still been wolves; and the structure of the government mattered little.

  I had seen the workings of the nobility throughout my travels, as I had lived amongst the courts and those that would be my peers by station of birth. I had avoided the poor, as I had not wished to see the effects of noble machinations. I had not wanted to see because, as with these boys, there was nothing I could do but toss them a coin. I could not give them all work. I could not educate them. I could not free them from the bondage of poverty or peasantry.

  In the deep hours of the night just before dawn, I was distracted from further attempts at slumber by quiet rustling in the straw. The noise was sustained and rhythmic, and I guessed the activity involved. As I continued to listen, my suspicion was confirmed by a series of small grunts followed by a cessation of all sound, except for a series of very quiet wet kisses and a few whispered words. I knew from the location, and his age, that one of the participants was Big John. I assumed the other to be the next oldest boy, as they had been very close and caring with one another throughout the meal and conversation that followed.

  For a moment, the knowledge of their union filled me with aching loneliness tinged with a bit of nostalgia. I was pleased that in their dismal lives they at least had someone to hold and rub against in the cold and dark. Then old memories rose from the grave, and it was all I could do not to flee as fear clutched at my bowels and my heart raced. My first explorations with sex and love, and Shane, had occurred in a barn much like this one, only one in better repair. I was overcome with the smell of hay and horses, and the memory of giggles and furtive touches that quickly turned to passionate murmurs and caresses. That had been the first step on the road to ruin. In the end it had not gone well, not well at all.

  Yet the beginning had not been unpleasant; it had been wonderful, in fact. I marveled at the workings of my mind. Why had it latched onto that first time in the straw and decided to braid it in with all the horror that came later? Was it because of Goliath’s death? Was it because the stable had often been our private trysting place? Surely that first time had not been evil in and of itself. That time, and the year that followed, had been filled with love and promise. Before Shane decided what we did was wrong. Before he decided I should be punished for leading him astray. Before he decided that it was less morally repugnant to take by force what I offered freely than to accept it in the spirit it was given.

  And now I was returning. Could I kill him this time? Would I?

  I did not sleep again. I held still and cursed a demon of my own making.

  We woke at dawn, or at least rose to move about with the sun, as I had not truly slept. The boys were quick to douse the flames so as to avoid alerting anyone to their presence. We ate the rest of the bread and cheese. Knowing I could buy more, I left them with my spare clothing. Knowing it would probably result in someone’s death, probably his, I left Big John with a pistol, shot, and powder. He stammered and regarded me with awe as we went a good way from their shelter, and I taught him how to load and shoot the piece. Then I gave him some of the silver coin I had. It was a good amount; used sparingly, it could keep them fed through the winter. It was the best I could do.

  I was touched by reverent hands as I mounted the mare. I wished them well and rode on. For a while I felt I was deserving of praise, and my heart was light. Then the truth of the whole matter a
nd the probable outcome of their short lives engulfed me once again. With that, and the omnipresent knowledge that Shane lay at the end of my journey, I was in a fine fit of melancholy by the time I reached Dunfield late in the day.

  My uncle had a modest estate and a fine comfortable house with a lovely garden. He was not a man given to ostentation or airs. Being my father’s younger brother, and with my being my father’s eldest son and presumed heir, my uncle would never inherit a title. He always seemed relieved by this, as it left him free to travel and hunt at his whim. He had married once, but she had died in childbirth; and since he had been very much in love with her, he had never bothered to make the attempt again.

  As luck would have it, my uncle was not at home. However, his housekeeper recognized my name, became flustered, and seemed on the verge of a fit of vapors at the sight of me. My uncle’s manservant had to help her to a chair. As I stood in the foyer and watched her pant, I wondered what had been said of me in my absence. Then I realized I knew her. She had been in my uncle’s employ before I left England.

  When the woman recovered, she seemed happy to bid me enter; and they showed me a guest room posthaste, so that I could rest from my travels. My uncle would not return for several days; but they assured me he would be very happy to find me there upon his arrival, and most vexed if they did not offer me every hospitality. I ate from a plate and bathed for the first time since Florence. I thanked them for all their work, and then asked them to leave me be for as long as I might sleep. Finally in a comfortable place of safety after nearly three months of hardship, I slept through the night and most of the next day. And then only hunger and the need to relieve myself pulled me from the deep feather bed.

  I ate in the kitchen, and happily submitted to the doting of the cook and the other five members of the staff. Apparently my uncle had told them lavish tales of my adventures as related from my letters. As he was something of an adventurous man himself, and also dearly in love with a good yarn, he had embellished what little I told him a great deal. I was amused to learn I had seduced a princess in Austria and fought a duke in France. I hoped I did not disappoint them, as I was sure my uncle had told tales of a far taller and handsomer man while he was at it.