Haunted Ground (29 page)

“I had no idea.  How extraordinary.”  Myra just gaped at me.  Her reaction was genuine, but it was hard to believe that no one had known the room was even there. 

October 1650

England

Brendan kissed Rowan goodbye and watched wistfully as she slipped out the door and into the gathering darkness of the October evening.  The past week had been the most bittersweet of his life, filled with the wonder of a new marriage and the gnawing worry about the future.  Rowan seemed to be blissfully unaware of the danger they were in, choosing to focus on trivial domestic matters and clouding his mind with her unwavering devotion.  He knew he needed to think clearly and anticipate every eventuality, but every conversation with his wife ended up in hours of lovemaking that left him pleasantly weak and stupidly happy.  Brendan ran his hand through his hair and climbed up the ladder to his loft where he promptly began pacing.  Pacing always focused his mind, and his healing body sorely lacked exercise and training.  His fighting skills were rusty and his reflexes slow, but he had no one to practice with, unless Reverend Pole decided to take up the sword.  The old reverend was more likely to fight with a quill, using his words to score a victory and not his steel. 

Brendan clasped his hands behind his back and continued his walk.  Now that he’d be traveling with Rowan, clerical robes would be pointless.  A reverend traveling with a young woman was more likely to arouse suspicion.  The magistrate’s men were on the lookout for a single man fitting his description, but no one was looking for a couple, though traveling with Rowan was certainly no protection against being recognized.  Rowan mentioned that she’d seen several broadsheets by the tavern and church offering a reward for his capture.  They’d even drawn a likeness of him, but Rowan assured him that it looked more like some maniacal wildman than the handsome, aristocratic man she married.  Brendan chuckled without mirth and sat down on the cot, tired of pacing.  His original intention was to borrow a horse from Uncle Caleb, but a couple traveling on horseback on All Hallows’ Eve would attract too much attention, and not mistaken for village people out to celebrate the holiday.  So, they would have to walk and buy horses later. 

Brendan had a purse full of coin and the money would buy them horses, provisions, and eventually, passage to America, but only if he could infringe on someone’s hospitality for the winter months.  After that, they’d be on their own, and he’d have to find a way to provide for them in their new country.  But, he was getting ahead of himself. First, they had to get to London.

Brendan stretched out on the cot and folded his hands behind his head.  He couldn’t wait to be out of this miserable little village.  He could already see the streets of London, teeming with wagons and fine carriages making their way along narrow streets crowded with passersby.  The lowliest servants mixed with finely-dressed ladies and gentlemen, who navigated the streets and jumped out of the way as wheels splashed them with muck, or someone upturned a chamber pot from a second-story window without so much as a warning.  The nobles dashed through the streets, their pomanders held to their delicate noses to make the passage more bearable. 

London smelled of garbage, soot, and decay, but Brendan loved its stately mansions, grandiose palaces, and the general feeling of life flowing and pulsating all around him, like blood through the heart.  He’d enjoyed walking by the river, its briny smell carried on the breeze, and dozens of packet boats, merchant vessels and barges bobbing gently on the murky water, sometimes completely invisible in the soupy yellow fog that enveloped London in its shroud, blurring the edges of buildings and swallowing people whole as they disappeared into its folds.  He looked forward to showing Rowan the markets and the theaters, and maybe taking her to see some mummers or acrobats.  She’d like that.  Rowan had never been further than this village; she would be amazed by the overwhelming tide of life she was soon to encounter.  She might be frightened at first, but she would learn to appreciate the city as he did.

Stephen tucked in the children and kissed them goodnight before descending the ladder from the loft and taking his seat by the low-burning fire.  The house seemed to settle around him, creaking and sighing like a human being who’s tired after a day’s work.  Normally, Stephen stayed up for an hour or two after the children had gone to bed, cleaning his tools, reading a few passages from the Bible, or simply dozing by the fire, but tonight he couldn’t settle to anything and suddenly missed Betty.  They used to sit up and talk over the day’s events after the children had gone to sleep, and make plans for the morrow.  Betty had been a tough, no-nonsense woman, but Stephen always knew that he could rely on her to be loyal, hardworking, and fair.  What would she have thought of Rowan, he wondered, and chuckled to himself?  He could almost hear Betty’s voice, “She’s an insipid, damaged little thing, you fool, and she’ll do nothing but bring you grief in the end.  Find a strong, healthy girl who’ll take care of you and the children, and not the other way ‘round.”

Stephen shook his head to dislodge Betty from his mind.  As usual, she had a point, even in death, but Stephen couldn’t help the longing in his heart.  Rowan made him feel things that he’d never felt for Betty.  Betty never needed coddling or protecting; she could take care of herself, but Rowan was like a wounded little bird that needed a bit of tender care before it could fly again.  He knew he was being a sentimental fool, but that’s how he felt, and he wasn’t ashamed of it, which brought him right back to the problem at hand.  He’d followed Rowan twice more, and although he hadn’t actually seen the man again, he knew she wasn’t alone in the house.  Stephen had seen the light of a candle dispel the darkness of the loft behind the shutters after she left.  Reverend Pole wasn’t there, so someone was.  Rowan seemed unusually giddy after she left the reverend’s house, humming to herself as she walked home, her basket swinging on her arm in tune to the music in her head.  Once, he even thought he heard her singing, but that was impossible.  His mind was likely playing tricks on him.

Stephen scratched his stubbled jaw and gazed miserably into the dying flames. What was he to do?  His initial reaction was to confront Rowan in the lane and ask her what she’d been up to and with whom, but that would only make her angry and defensive.  He had to tread carefully with her and not make any accusations until he was sure that something was indeed going on. 

The second option was to go to the house and confront the man, but he might not even come to the door, or if he did, not acknowledge that he had any relationship with Rowan.  Perhaps he was a guest of Reverend Pole’s or some distant relation.  But, if that were the case, why did no one see him in the village or at church?  Why did he choose to remain hidden?  Stephen briefly thought of asking the reverend, but then chided himself for his foolishness.  He had no right to question Reverend Pole about anything.  What he did in his house, and whom he chose to give hospitality to was none of Stephen’s business.  Reverend Pole was one of the kindest, purest souls he’d ever met, and he’d rather die than cause him any affront.  Hence, he was back to square one. 

“When in doubt – do nothing,” Betty said in his head, her voice almost as clear as if she were right next to him.  “Bide your time and the answer will come to you.  In the meantime, pray.  God answers every prayer, even one as foolhardy as yours.”

“Goodnight, Betty,” Stephen said out loud, “and thank you.  Maybe I underappreciated you while you were alive.”  Stephen could almost hear Betty’s harrumph of triumph.

Edward Sexby reined in his horse and took in his surroundings.  Another typical English village, with a cluster of houses around the green, and an old Norman church made of gray stone and boasting one central, truncated tower that cast a permanent shadow over the stone arch crowning the wooden door.  Dozens of lichen-covered gravestones dotted the grounds; an unwritten history of its inhabitants catalogued only in dates of birth and death, as if nothing in between actually mattered.  For these people, it probably hadn’t, since most of them lived lives of little or no account.  They were born, they spent their days in monotonous drudgery, and then they died. 

“The usual, sir?” Will asked.  He was already licking his lips in anticipation of a meal and a tankard of ale.

Sexby just nodded.  The only place to get any information in a village like this was the tavern, and this time, they had to tread carefully.  This was the home of Caleb Frain, uncle to Brendan and Jasper Carr, and any questions about Brendan would arouse instant suspicion.

“You keep quiet, Will, and leave the talking to me,” Sexby instructed, although he didn’t have to say a word.  Will was happy enough to let Sexby do the talking as long as he got to participate in anything that required the use of fists or arms, but since none of the people they’d come across seemed to know anything Will’s talents were unnecessary and he was becoming visibly restless, itching for someone to truss up.  He’d get his chance soon enough.  Sexby trusted his instincts, and his gut told him that this was the place where they’d finally learn something of Carr’s whereabouts.   

The tavern wasn’t hard to spot as it was the only building that displayed a creaky sign out front depicting a crowned woman with a severed head.  The sign swayed slowly in the gentle wind making the head look as if it were nodding.  Edward gave her a wink and a nod. 
The Queen’s Head
it is then.

The interior of the pub was pleasantly dim after the brightness of the afternoon and almost empty.  A few old men sat around nursing their drinks, but otherwise, the dining room was unoccupied.  A merry fire blazed in the grate and cast shifting shadows onto the whitewashed walls and dark wooden beams.  The publican didn’t seem to be about, so the men took a seat at a corner table and set aside their weapons and hats.  They were in no rush, and had no desire to start off on the wrong foot with the proprietor.  A few minutes passed before a plump, middle-aged woman came waddling out of the kitchen and made straight for them.

“I’m ever so sorry, sirs.  I didn’t know there was anyone waiting.  What can I get you?  We have some lovely pigeon pie, just out of the oven and piping hot.  Shall I fetch you both a slice?  Or there’s some cold ham left over from yesterday.  Goes ever so well with some fresh bread and a bit of mustard and pickle.”  She seemed out of breath as the blathered on, unnerved by Sexby’s gaze.  He liked to make people nervous.  It got them talking.

“That sounds divine, mistress.  Pigeon pie for me and my companion, and a slice of that ham wouldn’t go amiss, and some ale, of course.”  The woman dipped down in an imitation of a curtsy and looked like she was about to sprawl on the floor, but she righted herself in time and scurried back to the kitchen.

“I think she fancies you,” Will said with a chuckle.  “The poor cow nearly pissed herself just looking into those eyes of yours.”  He made Sexby laugh by batting his eyelashes and looking soulfully into his eyes.  Sexby never considered himself a handsome man, but a few women had commented on his deep brown eyes, saying that they could get lost in them had he ever given them the chance.  Edward gazed into his eyes in the cracked mirror above his bed, but saw nothing extraordinary about his brown eyes.  They were just eyes, fringed with thick lashes and slightly slanted, like those of a cat contemplating a mouse just before it became its next meal.  But, if the ladies admired his eyes, he’d use them to his advantage and gaze at them as if enraptured to get whatever it is he wanted or needed at the moment, and what he needed right now was some hot food and a bit of information.

“You’re a joker, Will, but we must all use the talents the good Lord blessed us with,” he replied with a look of mock seriousness making Will guffaw.  Will was about to make some rude comment when the woman came bustling out of the kitchen with two plates in one hand and two tankards in the other.  She executed this balancing act more gracefully than the curtsey and set the food and the drinks on the table, her eyes darting to Sexby’s face.  “I do hope you like it, sir.”

“Oh, I’m sure we will.  The pie smells wonderful.  Did you make it yourself?”  Sexby asked with a warm smile.

“Oh, yes.  I do all the cooking.  If you enjoy it, you can get some for the road,” she suggested slyly, already counting the money she was about to earn on this slow afternoon. 

“I think we just might, but we’re not leaving just yet.  We’re supposed to meet a friend of ours here, a Brendan Carr.  Has he been by?”  Sexby took a deep pull of his ale and a bite of pie, which made him roll his eyes in ecstasy.  The woman blushed with pleasure and made a pretense of thinking hard.

“Why, I don’t rightly know. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t recall from where.  We get so many travelers passing through.”

“He’s got some kin here, a Caleb Frain,” Sexby offered helpfully.

“Oh, of course, young Brendan.  I remember him now, but I haven’t clapped eyes on him since Maisie’s wedding.  That’d be five years ago now, or thereabouts.  Heard he went off to fight, he did.”  She was about to say something else when she realized that she had no idea whose side these men were on, so she opted for another curtsey.  “I’ll be off to the kitchen now.  Call if you need anything.”

“Well, that went well,” Will observed with a mouth full of pie.  “She’s not much of a cook either.” 

Sexby took another bite of pie and chewed thoughtfully.  “Not a total waste.  She’s a talkative one, make no mistake, so if she’d seen him, she’d have said something, or at least showed a reluctance to speak.  Her answer was genuine.  What we need to do is come back when there are more men in here, drinking.  We might get more information then.  They might not tell us the truth, but at least we’ll be able to see if they’re hiding something.”

“What shall we do till then?” Will was hoping Sexby would want to get some sleep.  He was tired and saddle-sore, and not averse to some rest.  It’d be nice to find a willing girl, but this didn’t look like the type of place where those kinds of pleasures could be found.

“Let’s get a room.  I’m tired and in sore need of a bath.  A man who’s clean and well dressed always makes a better impression than one who stinks of sweat and horses.  These peasants tend to be impressed by gentlemen, so let’s act like it, or at least try.”  Sexby laughed at Will’s face.  He was as much of a gentleman as the publican’s wife was a lady, but it never hurt to try.