Pride of the King, The (16 page)

Lauren took a sip, noticing that the man's leg was resting against her own.

"How long has it been since you've eaten," he said pulling a wad of notes from his pocket."

"A while."

"Well here," he said pushing the notes down her bodice. "This ought to help."

He leaned his huge body over and started to run his tongue along her neck. Lauren pushed him back, but he pressed himself harder against her, slipping his hand down the front of her gown.

"Stop!” she cried.

He mumbled something and Lauren began to squirm. Yanking out of his grasp, she lunged for the door.

The man caught her by the hair yanking her head back. "Not so fast!" he snarled.

With all her strength, Lauren threw herself against the door of the coach and tumbled out onto the pavement below. The carriage stopped, but Lauren dashed down an alley. She bolted up one street and down the other until she had lost her breath and realized that the man was not pursuing her at all.

Panting and holding her side, Lauren sat down in a doorway. Suddenly she realized that the notes were still tucked inside her bodice. Her eyes grew large as she pulled out the wad. She counted the bills then smiled. She threw her head back and laughed. The incident had been to her benefit. It had all turned out well. The risk was a small price to pay for survival. There was enough money here to buy food for a week, she thought.

Even though Lauren was frugal the money was gone in no time, and she was back to stealing food again. She was growing drawn and pale, her clothes were filthy and her hair was matted. She noted other paupers on the street viewing them not as companions but as competitors for food.

After several weeks of struggling to survive, Lauren forgot Heathstone, New Orleans and all of her dreams. Her focus was entirely on food and safety. One day it was too difficult to make the journey out to the countryside, so she slept in a doorway, cold and miserable all night.

The next day Lauren watched a house all morning until the resident stepped out to go to market. Armed with an excuse if someone answered the door, Lauren stepped up to the door and knocked. There was no response. To be sure, she knocked again and still no reply. Looking one way, then the other she opened the door and stepped inside the keeping room. Someone had banked the fire, and the smell of fresh baked bread filled the room. It was a modest home decorated in the Dutch style with colorful tiles inlaid in the stonework of the fireplace and Delft china in the cupboard. Lauren knew these things could bring a good price, but she had no time and wished only for food and bedding.

Quickly she darted about looking for linens and bedding to steal, but she could find no beds. She ran from one end of the house to the other, finally opening a large cupboard. There hiding inside was a bed with a fluffy down mattress and patchwork quilt. She was astounded to see a bed in a cupboard. She yanked the quilt off the bed and went back to the kitchen loading it with breads and meats. Rolling it up, she shoved the bundle under her arm and opened the front door. Looking around cautiously, she stepped into the street and stole away.

That night as Lauren slept in a doorway bundled warmly in her quilt; a soldier found her and told her to move on. She moved several blocks away, and again the same soldier roused her gesturing to move again. Desperate for sleep she wandered to the outskirts of town and found a graveyard. Candlelight flickered in the parsonage, so she went to the far end of the churchyard near the woods to bed for the night. She spread her quilt on the ground between two crooked headstones and lay down staring at the parsonage. It was comforting to watch the light in the home. The warmth of the quilt enveloped her and Lauren dropped off to sleep, sharing the ground with those who would sleep forever.

*                *                *

For weeks, Lauren slept in the churchyard. She had grown attached to her spot between the two crooked headstones. She had even come to know the souls she slept between, Abigail Von Dorset, called to her maker at the age of eight, and Ephraim James brought home at eighty-two. The phantoms appeared to her often, but particularly on the nights when she was most tired and hungry. Abigail, a wispy sprite, would perch herself upon her headstone, hug her knees and listen to Lauren reminisce about her carefree days at the convent. When she needed to unburden worries and cares, Grandpa Ephraim would lean on his cane nodding sympathetically. The specters never criticized or laughed at her. They were always patient and understanding, offering her love and kindness when she returned from a day of humiliation and despair.

As the weeks wore on Lauren became gaunt and frail. It was barely noticeable that a baby grew inside her, and most days she forgot that the child even existed. She had developed a nagging cough, which robbed her of precious sleep. Not much more than a specter herself, she whispered to Grandpa Ephraim one night that she was afraid she would be unable to rise from her bed in the morning to search for food. All night long the rain soaked her blanket, and he stayed by her side leaning on his cane keeping silent vigil.

When the morning sun rose, Lauren's faithful friend had vanished, and she sat up slowly rubbing her eyes. It was late in the day, and the sun was already high in the sky as a strange droning sound met her ears. Bewildered and groggy, Lauren shook her head to clear the cobwebs. At last she recognized the sound. It was singing, and it was coming from the road. She got up on her knees, and hiding behind Abigail's headstone, she spied a funeral procession headed her way.

Like a wild animal, she grabbed her quilt and dashed into the woods to watch from a safe distance as the group walked up and gathered by an open hole near her sleeping spot. After lowering the coffin, the
dominie
read from the Bible as the mourners dabbed their eyes and threw flowers onto the coffin. One by one last respects were paid, and the group turned back to town leaving only the gravedigger to finish.

Lauren watched from the woods. The man had a broad back, and the weathered face of someone used to a lifetime of work in the elements. Leaning against a tree, he lit his pipe and watched the procession disappear down the road. When the group rounded the bend, he tapped the ashes out of his pipe and walked back to the open grave. Assuming he would fill the hole in, Lauren was surprised when the man jumped down into the open grave then scrambled out again holding a cord. One end of the rope he left in the hole, the other end of he dropped onto the ground near his feet. Next he picked up his spade and began to fill in the hole. When he was finished, he drove an iron rod into the ground which was about two feet high, attached a bell to it and fastened the cord to the bell. Wiping his hands on his breeches, he sighed and stretched. The job was complete and it was time for payment. After disappearing into the parsonage for a moment, he trudged down the road and out of sight.

Hunger pains forced Lauren to move out of the woods. After hanging her quilt up to dry in the trees, she dragged herself into town. Today she was lucky, the cook at the Hogshead Tavern had burned a turkey, and Lauren was the first to discover its charred remains tossed carelessly into the alley. She picked it up tearing at the burned meat savagely, feeling it's nourishment in her belly.

That night in the graveyard, she was asleep the minute she dropped onto her quilt, but before long a bell ringing awakened her. She bolted upright as it echoed in her ears. Rubbing her eyes, she stood up quickly letting the quilt drop to the ground. The parsonage was dark. Everyone appeared to be asleep. Suddenly, the bell rang again, and Lauren dropped down into a terrified crouch. Her heart pounded furiously as she tried to make sense of what was happening.
Where was the bell? Was this a nightmare?
Suddenly Lauren realized the din was not coming from the church but from the small bell perched above the freshly dug grave.

Panting, she stumbled toward the mound where the smell of fresh earth filled her nostrils. The bell continued ringing frantically. Suddenly, Lauren realized that someone was under the earth, buried alive, pulling desperately at the cord. Confusion turned to horror as Lauren began to claw at the earth, trying to free the prisoner below. Dirt flew in every direction, but the effort was fruitless. As abruptly as it began, the bell stopped. Lauren froze. Had the person suffocated? Had they fallen into a swoon?

She stood up and looked at the parsonage. The ringing began again. Mustering all her strength, Lauren bounded toward the front door and hammered on it with her fists.

"Answer! Please answer!" she screamed in French. No one stirred as she slammed on the door again. "Someone please! Come quickly! Someone has been buried alive!"

There was still no response. She dashed down the steps out to a shed in search of a shovel. In spite of the clear night, Lauren was not familiar with the parsonage, and she tripped over an uneven paving stone sending her into a sprawl. A man in a nightshirt jerked her to her feet.

"What is the meaning of this!" he barked in Dutch.

"Please Monsieur!" Lauren implored, "I was asleep in the churchyard and there was a bell--".

"What do you want!" he exclaimed again in Dutch, grabbing her arm.

Frustrated, Lauren put her finger to her lips, instructing him listen.

Suddenly, the
dominie‘s
jaw dropped. He heard the bell. The man turned and bound up the steps of the parsonage shouting to his family. Lauren stood wringing her hands until the
dominie
and his sons rushed out holding lanterns. After grabbing shovels, they bolted out to the graveyard where they began shoveling furiously. The bell ceased ringing.

Lauren's heart was pounding as she watched the men. It was a macabre sight, seeing the three figures digging frantically in the lamplight. The lanterns cast long shadows across the
dominie
and his sons, contorting their images grotesquely.

The heavy smell of earth churned Lauren's stomach as she listened to the spades scoop and toss, scoop and toss. She began to feel weak and dizzy. Steadying herself on an oak, her mind traveled six feet below to the desperate inhabitant of that coffin. Was the poor soul still alive or had they been too late? How could there be enough air in that small space to keep anyone alive? She said a fervent prayer to the Virgin Mary and waited. Suddenly she heard the dull thud of a shovel hitting wood, then shouts from the
dominie
.

Lauren dashed to the edge and held a lantern high. Frantically, the young men cleared the coffin as the
dominie
yanked at the stubborn lid. Suddenly it cracked open and there lying motionless in the box was a young woman, pale and drawn, clothed in a white shroud, covered in perspiration and blood. Her blonde hair was a wet and tangled and her hands were torn and bloodied. Lauren knew she had been clawing at the lid of the casket. All of a sudden, there was a swift intake of air, and she began to cough violently.

"Praise God! She's still alive!" declared the
dominie
as he looked gratefully to the heavens. The men quickly lifted the woman up and carried her off to the parsonage, for a second chance at life.

For a long time Lauren stood and watched the flickering lights inside the house. She wondered if the woman was still alive. She shuddered to think what would have happened had she not heard the bell and cursed whoever neglected keeping vigil that night. There would be no sleep for a while. Lauren was far too unnerved. With a sigh, she took her quilt and started down the road to find a new place to sleep, forced to abandon her home once more. She turned back to say farewell to Abigail and Ephraim, but they were nowhere to be found; only their silent headstones remained.

Chapter 20

Lauren spent a miserable night lying on her quilt behind a necessary house off Pearl Street. She sat up stiffly the next morning, pushing the matted hair from her face. As much as she needed to rest today, it was essential she move on before someone discovered her. She rolled her filthy quilt into a ball. Once again the quest for food was imperative, but today when she stepped onto the cobblestone street a blinding pain shot through her belly. She doubled over in agony. After several minutes, the torment eased, and she straightened up panting. A few people noticed she was in distress, but they offered no assistance. They wrinkled their noses turning away in disgust from the foul-smelling beggar.

Catching her breath, she moved down the street toward the market to try to find food. The pain was gone and hunger returned. She watched with longing as a barge moved down the canal, laden with colorful fruits and vegetables for market.

Suddenly, a well-dressed man, bored with his repast pitched a half-eaten drumstick onto the street. It landed with a thud at Lauren's feet and rolled. Like a bolt of lightning she plunged for the meat but not before a mangy hound snapped it up. With the ferocity of a wild animal, Lauren dove for the dog and grabbed it by the back of its neck tearing the drumstick from its jaws. The dog lunged at Lauren, baring its teeth, but she kicked it and turned away. Lauren was too absorbed with the drumstick to notice a woman calling to her from a coach.

"Put that down!" the woman called in Dutch.

Finishing the meat, Lauren tossed the bone away and wiped her greasy hands on her skirt, oblivious to the woman.

"Stop now, I must speak with you!" the woman cried in French.