Hugh and Bess by Susan Higginbotham Read Free Book Online

Let me hear it.”
      He listened as Felton, speaking as gently as he could, told him a tale of horror upon horror. His father, hoping to cheat the queen of his execution, starving himself from the time he was taken to the time he was executed at Hereford. His father, wearing a mock crown of nettles, made to ride in chains from Llantrisant to Hereford on the meanest mount that could be found, hooted at by the crowd and pelted with dung and garbage in each town through which the procession passed. His father, finally reaching Hereford, being stripped naked for the amusement of the bystanders and having admonitory scripture verses etched onto his skin. His father being dragged by four horses to a fifty-foot gallows, his man-at-arms Simon de Reading being hung below him. His father not only being disemboweled while he was conscious but emasculated as well.
      A silence fell. When Hugh next heard Felton's voice next to his ear, it was strangely far off. “Shall I send the chaplain to you, Master Hugh?”
      “No. Leave me.”
      “Sir, I don’t think—”
      “I said leave me!”
      “Sir—”
      “Leave me, damn you!” He added, “Have someone bring me some wine. Plenty of it.”
      Felton slowly left the room. Some minutes later, a man arrived with the wine. Hugh shooed him out, seated himself on the window seat, and drank two large cupfuls rapidly. Two more cups followed in quick succession, yet poor as his head for wine had always been, the picture in his mind of his father being hacked to pieces was as vivid as before.
      Someone knocked on his door, then called his name. Hugh paid the caller no mind, and soon he heard the sound of retreating footsteps. Two more cups, and the knock sounded again. “Get the hell away,” he called. He knocked the cup over and stared at it stupidly.
      “Master Hugh?”
      The voice was a female one. After a moment, Hugh stumbled to the door and lifted the bolt. When the door swung open, he found himself staring at the castle laundress, Alice. She was in her forties, but when they had first arrived at Caerphilly, Hugh, missing the wenches he had enjoyed visiting in London, had wondered if she would do as a bedmate in their absence; she looked as if she might still have considerable lust in her. Then the world had turned upside down with the death of his grandfather, and he’d not thought of Alice again except as a source of clean shirts. “Ah, I was right. You were brought up too well for you to refuse a woman.”
      “They tormented him. They cut his—”
      “I know, lamb. Come.”
      She held out her arms and he stepped into them, then sank to his knees and began sobbing into her skirts, at first quietly, then harshly. Alice eased herself down to his level and patted him on the back as he huddled against her, weeping.
      His stomach sent a warning in just enough time for him to turn and heave onto the rushes the wine he had gulped. Again and again he retched while Alice supported him. “Please don’t tell the garrison,” he muttered when he could finally speak again.
      “I won’t. Come, let's put you to bed.”
      Despite her gender, Alice, through years of dragging washing around, was easily as strong as Hugh. She hauled him to his feet as summarily as if he were a recalcitrant sack of laundry, mopped his face with a towel, stripped him to his drawers, and assisted him into his bed. Too weak and exhausted to protest at the intrusion, Hugh heard her open the door and murmur to someone outside, then heard the sound of someone sweeping up the soiled rushes and scattering fresh ones in their place. The sound had ceased, and Hugh had almost gone to sleep when he felt someone climb into bed next to him and touch his shoulder. Hugh blinked. “ Alice? ”
      “Don’t be daft, lamb, my days for that are long gone. I’m here to keep you company. With all the grief you’re carrying, you shouldn’t be alone tonight. Just lie here and sleep.”
      She