Crow Hollow (11 page)

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

Prudence started to grow nervous by the time they rode into Marlborough in the early afternoon. Now that her bravado was fading, she found herself thinking of spending the night in the same room as this restless, aggressive man. And most likely the same bed too. Heaven help her.

It would have been much easier to share a bed with Peter Church. A Quaker and well into middle age, she wouldn’t have worried about him groping her with lusty hands in the middle of the night. Not that she truly thought James would try anything, but she doubted she’d be able to sleep for the worry of it.

At first glance, Marlborough didn’t seem much different from Danforth’s Farms, maybe slightly larger and more compact. There was an inn and tavern, together with a blacksmith shop in the middle of town. A mill sat by the brook, with the millrace clogged with ice and a waterfall of icicles flowing from the spokes of the mill wheel.

The palisade that shielded the town was charred here and there, and the houses inside the gates had also burned to the ground. The Indians must have forced their way in during one of their raids.

The inn was a tidy place called The Golden Lion, with a red sign and a yellow lion rampant. James asked for a room under the name of James Smith. There was one available. It had a single, not-very-large bed. But when James glanced at Prudence with a question in his eyes, she nodded and said it would do. James told the innkeeper it would be acceptable.

The price seemed outlandish, but James paid without haggling. Then, when the innkeeper asked for an extra shilling to pay for the feeding and care of so many horses, he paid that too, and without complaint. Maybe he was as relieved as she that the keeper addressed her as Goodwife Smith.

Then again, money didn’t seem to be an issue. At supper, James paid ten pence to be served wine instead of the ale that came with the meal. She was unused to its sharp taste and drank it in little sips. The food was surprisingly good, cuts from a suckling pig cooked with tart apples. Wheat bread from finely milled flour, and not a corn pudding in sight, which was a relief. Instead, an apple pastry for dessert, hot and sweet.

“What is that flavor?” James asked after the first bite. “That’s not molasses.”

“Maple sugar.”

“Maple, like from a tree? How strange.”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s delicious, so long as I don’t think too hard about its origins.”

“Isn’t that true of most foods?”

He smiled at this.

There was something she’d been curious about, and now she found the courage to ask. “How is it that you began to work for the king? Is it a family . . . I don’t know, a
trade
?”

He smiled at this too, and she felt foolish.

“I mean, was your father a spy?”

“My father was a Roundhead. Hung as a traitor after the Restoration.”

Her face flushed. “Pray, pardon me.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

He reached across and put his hand over hers in a comforting gesture. It was somewhat improper, even though he was likely acting a role for the benefit of the maid who was still coming and going from the room. After a few seconds, she withdrew her hand from the table to put it on her lap with the other.

“I don’t like the word ‘spy,’ it’s so coarse,” he said. “Not to mention that they hang spies, and that’s true almost anywhere you go. An agent of the king, on the other hand, may be about any sort of business at all.”

“And what are
you
about, James? What truly brought you to Boston? Not the murder, I know that’s a story for my benefit.”

“Ah, no you don’t,” he said with a half smile and a raised eyebrow. “You’ll have to be a good sight more subtle than that.” He finished his wine and waved for the maid to come pour him more.

“Let me attempt subtlety, then,” she said when the maid had gone. “Why Boston? You seem to think that New England is filled with rustics and governed by bumpkins, so why not do the king’s duty in France instead? Is this punishment for some indiscretion, some failure?”

“The contrary. This is a thorny problem to resolve. If I manage, if I return in triumph, there’s a great opportunity waiting for me in London.”

“What kind of opportunity?”

He studied her carefully. “I don’t suppose there is harm in the telling. I haven’t kept my ambitions secret in London, so why do so here?” He took a drink of wine, then set down the goblet. “King Charles has opened a position as chancellor of his agents for foreign affairs and internal dissent.”

“Lord Spy, you mean.”

He shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. And if I return in triumph, I intend to ask His Majesty for the position. If it’s given me, I’ll be knighted, awarded lands.”

“Can you tell me how you ended up working for the king? Did you volunteer?”

“I was recruited. It was your own husband, Sir Benjamin, who approached me.”

“That must have come as a surprise.”

“How so?”

“Given that your father was a . . . was, you know . . .”

“Hanged as a traitor for the other side? Well, yes, it would have been, but Sir Benjamin was rather more careful than to simply blurt out what he was about. By the time I realized who and what I was, I had been in the king’s service for two years already. There was little room for surprise.”

“I don’t understand.”

“This would have been 1670. I was twenty, studying law at Oxford. Sir Benjamin was a young professor of literature. We were reading the works of William Shakespeare—perchance you’ve heard of him. He was a great playwright early in the century.”

“I’ve read him! Of course,” she added hurriedly, “you cannot playact in New England. It is a sin to deceive.”

“And I see you believe that with all your soul.”

She ignored his sarcasm. “Go on.”

“It was a great controversy. The Puritans at home had also banned the theater during Cromwell’s reign, and there were plenty in Oxford still who saw Shakespeare as unseemly and vulgar, at the very least.”

“Shakespeare’s language is not always temperate,” she conceded, though she couldn’t see any harm in reading the stories. It was no worse than reading Dante or Petrarch, and certainly better than Chaucer.

“When the Puritans were burning the folios,” he continued, “some rare earlier quartos had found their way to Holland. Sir Benjamin hired me to travel to Amsterdam to acquire one of them and carry it secretly to his library in All Souls College, Oxford. Later, I took trips to Paris and Rome, even Constantinople, to deliver and secure rare manuscripts. Not only for Sir Benjamin, but for Lord North as well. Once, I met King Charles himself as I passed him some bundle of papers or other. When I asked Sir Benjamin about it later—this was as he was leaving for Boston, which I didn’t yet understand—he told me the truth.”

“And what was that?”

“That I’d been in the service of the king for some time now. Most of those missions had been to pass secret missives to spies and diplomats, not to transfer manuscripts at all. So I was already fully implicated.”

“You still had a choice in the matter. There is always a choice.”

“Of course, but why would I have chosen otherwise? I was offered the chance to travel throughout Europe, paid a handsome sum for my services, given every opportunity to advance with loyal service.”

“But your father fought for the other side.”

His voice hardened. “He was a traitor and a fool.”

“Is that why you want the position as the king’s chancellor?”

“I don’t follow.”

“To show the world that you’re the king’s man. Surely, people whisper about you, gossip. Speculate about your loyalties and call you a Roundhead behind your back. But if you’re the chancellor of spies, one of the king’s most trusted men, then maybe they’ll stop.”

James looked thoughtful at this. “I had never considered that. I’m an ambitious man, and His Majesty rewards loyal ambition. That’s why I’m reaching for the position of chancellor. Not because of my father. I don’t think, anyway.”

“It doesn’t have to be one reason or the other,” Prudence said. “Add two weights instead of one if you want to tip the scales.”

“I later worked for two years in France,” he continued, “fighting against those treacherous snakes. It was exciting and dangerous. But we had plenty of silver and to spare, every food and pleasure at our hands.”

“This explains why you’re so free with your money.”
And women
, she thought. He was handsome, and the French women notorious. What temptations he must have faced.

“In France, this would have been considered frugality,” he said. “I once spent one hundred fifty pounds in six days in Paris.”

She didn’t know what to say to this. That staggering sum could buy a house in Boston.

“Pardon,” he said. “That sounds like a boast. I don’t mean it that way. But His Majesty has more money than he has loyal men. Sometimes with the former he seeks to buy the latter.”

“I see. And did he buy yours?”

“No. I serve out of duty.”

“To what?”

“To king and country.” He sounded surprised by the question. “Even you should understand that.”

“I understand loyalty.” It was hard for Prudence to articulate, even to herself, why James’s answer was disappointing. “We’re English too, you know.”

Another couple came into the room for supper, and Prudence and James fell silent as the others sized them up. The woman was young, maybe twenty, and looked vaguely familiar, but Prudence couldn’t place how or where.

A few minutes later, James yawned and stretched his legs. He twisted his neck, which popped. He gestured at the inn girl, who was feeding wood into the fire, and made a little gesture as if using a bed warmer, then pointed to the stairs. She nodded and filled the pan with coals, then went upstairs.

“Are you going to bed already?” Prudence asked.

“I’m exhausted. Aren’t you?”

“A little. But I think I’ll sit up for a bit. That wine went to my head.”

“You barely had any. But very well. I’ll leave you some space in the bed.”

“Thank you.” The other couple was watching, the man smoking a long pipe, so Prudence added, “Good night, dear.”

James winked at her. When the girl came back down, he disappeared up the stairs. The floor overhead creaked for a few minutes, then was still. Prudence would wait an hour or so to make sure he was asleep before going up. She had brought her pen, ink, and paper with her, and she spent a few minutes writing what had come to pass since she’d left poor Old John Porter at the woodshed.

“Goodwife Cotton?” the young woman said from the other table.

Prudence turned, startled. She only just kept her wits. “It’s Goodwife Smith now.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. I hadn’t realized you’d remarried. My sister didn’t say anything about it.”

“I only married recently. Pray, pardon me, Goodwife—”

“It’s me, Hannah Platt. I’m Goody Stevenson now.”

“Of course, I’m so sorry. Hannah! Rebecca’s sister. You’re so grown up. Goodness, are you expecting?”

Hannah’s hands had been resting on her belly, and now she smiled at her husband, who gave a contented nod between puffs. He was a handsome fellow with a prosperous look about him, maybe in his midtwenties, though Hannah couldn’t be older than nineteen.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you early enough to meet your husband,” Hannah said. “What are you doing in Marlborough?”

“We’re moving back to Winton.”

“Of course. That’s right. I’ve read your narrative. It was so enthralling.”

Prudence was squirming. Suddenly, going upstairs while James was awake didn’t seem so risky. She forced herself to remain calm.

“Why are you on the road?” she asked.

“We were visiting my grannie in Springfield,” Hannah said. “She’s not well. We’re on our way back to Boston, though. Wait until I tell Rebecca I saw you. I can’t believe she didn’t tell me you’d remarried.” Hannah smiled. “I’m giving her a good scolding.”

“I don’t think she knows. I’ve been keeping my own company—too much notoriety after my account was published. It’s not good for one’s vanity.” Prudence yawned, then rose to her feet. “Pray, pardon me, but it was a long day and I promised my husband I’d retire early.”

A flicker of disappointment washed over Hannah’s face. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

Prudence touched the young woman’s hand. “I’ll look for you and Rebecca next time I’m in Boston. It has been too long since we’ve talked.”

The young woman looked happier at this.

“Goodnight, Hannah. And you, Goodman Stevenson. May God be with you both.”

Prudence braved the frigid outhouse out back instead of using the chamber pot upstairs. When she reached the room, she eased the door open as carefully as possible and slipped inside. With any luck, he’d be asleep already.

“That was quicker than I was expecting,” his voice said from the bed. “I thought you’d be down there half the night.”

She shut the door and latched it. “I was recognized.”

He shifted abruptly in the darkness, as if sitting up. “Really? What happened?” He started moving around.

“No, it’s all right. Lie down. Pray face the wall while I change clothing.”

She undressed quickly in the dark, then groped for the clothing they’d salvaged from the burned farmhouse. She pulled on a nightgown and nightcap and changed her socks for dry ones while telling him about her encounter with Hannah.

“Not good,” he said when she finished.

“It all depends on how quickly Hannah sees Rebecca. Her sister is something of a gossip—once she knows, the news will cross Boston in a few hours. Then it will get to Reverend Stone and he’ll know how to find us.”

“We’ll be far ahead by then, probably in Indian country already. I’m more worried about those riders catching us in an ambush.”

“You fought them off once. Would they really try again?”

James lay back down. “They were careless that time. They didn’t expect what we gave them.”

No, they wouldn’t have expected it. The way James had thrown himself into violence, shooting and hacking, would have taken anyone aback. Three of their number dead. They would remember that next time.