Chapter Thirty-One - Her Lawfully Wedded Husband

Travel, winter 1617/18

They agreed they would break their journey at Cassel, where the horses could rest. Leaving the Executioner far behind them, they found a decent inn, cheerfully bubbling with travellers and traders. But, as there was no choice of rooms, Charlotte and Maynard had to share a bed. Once they brought the trunk and the travelling case into the room, they avoided looking at the bed in question. He suggested she’d be happier after a bath. She agreed. They’d been on the road for hours that day and the mud had been bad. He left her to her privacy.

After she’d removed the worst of the road from her skin and scraped the worst of the dust and mud off her safeguard, she came down to the darkened dining room and looked around the half a dozen tables buzzing with clattering community. Maynard stood up from his place beside the fire and came to greet her. He brought her to a dim corner already set with bread and wine. The innkeeper brought fresh ham soup, thickened with peas and cabbage and Charlotte ate heartily. After a glass of warming claret, she sat back in her chair and stared into the fireplace. The flickering flames sent her into a reverie.

Charlotte looked up sleepily when the innkeeper asked if they would like to have meat now? Charlotte could not countenance further heavy food but did agree to some fruit. When the innkeeper withdrew, she looked at Maynard with gratitude but couldn’t linger with such sentimental thoughts. All must be practical now.

They went upstairs to their chamber and looked at the bed. It looked very small for two people. They dared not look at each other. Maynard said, ‘I’ll sleep on the floor.’

Charlotte looked at him. He’d worked hard during the day; she knew he was exhausted. ‘That’s not fair, Maynard.’

Even though the awkward tension between them was almost unbearable, she thought she would be safe, both from his instincts, and her own. She got into the bed first and looked at the linen. There was no evidence of bedbugs. ‘It’s clean. Comfortable. Come now.’

Maynard stood awkwardly beside the bed. Then he removed his breeches, overshirt and stockings until he stood before her in his smock. He sat heavily on the straw mattress. ‘Sleep well.’

She turned on her side as if there was nothing to worry about. ‘You, too.’

She felt him lie down. Was he finding it as difficult to stay on his side of the bed as she was?

She could feel him breathing.

Was he aware of her? She was almost in pain as she felt him beside her with such a barrier between them.

Soon, he was snoring gently.

She tried to turn on her side so she wouldn’t disturb him, so she would not touch him.

But she wanted to. And this shocked her.

How her feelings had changed. It was cruel. She was used to being alone but now she was lonely.

She couldn’t help weeping in the dark. Every time she did shut her eyes she could see men coming at her: the wolf, François, the guards at the Lille jail, the executioner, Hugo, Olivier, Cosimo …

Maynard kept snoring but Charlotte’s struggles seemed interminable. There had to be a better way. She turned over again and again. Did she sleep at all?

In the morning Charlotte climbed over the man and picked up Maynard’s overshirt. She held it against her chest. She looked up at him. ‘What if I were to become a man?’

Maynard smiled at her from where he lay in the bed. ‘You’d be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.’

‘Seriously.’

‘And you’d have to change your name again.’

She realised he was right. ‘Of course. But I find now I’ve done it so many times it’s not so difficult.’

‘And you’d have to take off your wedding ring.’

She looked at him at the same time her hand went to touch the gold. Of course. She slowly drew the ring over her knuckle and placed it on the table.

‘Charlotte? Can you not tell me? What worries you so?’

‘My problem is my fear! I’m a woman alone, attempting to flee! Alone, I must cross an ocean and learn to live in a strange new country.’

‘You’re not alone.’

‘I will be once you’re returned to France.’

‘If I return to France.’

Anne stared at him. What was he thinking? ‘You have to, if not for your family, for the horses stabled here!’ She went on more seriously, ‘I thank you, Maynard. But I must find my own way now. Whatever that may be.’

He had nothing to say. It was true. No one could predict the future unless they had the assistance of the Lord. Or witchcraft.

Charlotte tried on his jacket and stuffed her hair into his hat. She put the shirt on over her clothes. She wouldn’t undress in front of Maynard. She had a brand to hide.

They both looked in the mirror, him standing behind her, and examined Charlotte critically. Her face was thin, and her bright blue eyes looked feminine to her critical gaze. She tried to look more manly but only succeeded in making them both laugh.

‘You’ll have to keep your eyes half shut. Don’t look at people.’

‘And bump into things.’

‘And that.’ He bent down and smeared some soot from a burnt log in the fireplace over his finger-tips. He turned her head, gently darkened her top lip and ran his hands around her jaw line, creating a faint look of beard and moustache shadow. They smiled again but Charlotte was nervous.

He stared at her in the mirror.

‘Rest, Claude … ‘

Charlotte frowned at him in the mirror.

‘What? You don’t like Claude?’ Maynard was sorry as he remembered her little brother. ‘Of course not. Then what of Pierre? Denys? Jaques?’

‘Charles? As I am Charlotte now it must be Charles, no?’

‘Right, my little Charles. My brother, Charles. I’ll find you some clothes. Have you any money, Charles?’

Charlotte went to find cash. As she handed over coins she looked up into his eyes. ‘Maynard. Thank you.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll find clothes. Then we’ll load the cart and we’ll be off to Calais. Au bientôt, Charles.’

And he was gone. Charlotte stared at herself in the mirror and eventually began to laugh. ‘Charles.’ She was well used to adventures in boys’ clothing. Though, perhaps, not on this international scale. She tilted her neck carefully and counted herself lucky the scars and bruising had faded so well. She took her chemise down from her shoulder and twisted to see if she could see the brand. Ah, yes, still obvious. Quickly she covered the mark again. Bridgett had tried her best but had not been able to fade it. She applied a little of the cream now. Perhaps it would go in time. Perhaps not. She must be careful. Perhaps not this lacy chemise. Charles would not wear lace.

Soon enough a knock came at the door. ‘Are you decent?’ She called assent and Maynard came into the room. He brought her warm men’s clothes including good breeches and a woollen jacket. He gave a nod of approval. His little apprentice would do.

They took the trunk between them and placed it into the small cart. He’d decided on just one horse, with another to exchange when it grew tired. Two horses taking turns should get them to Calais by night fall.

She could not help but notice how Maynard was staring at her beside him on the carriage seat. ‘What? Have I really grown a beard?’

‘That might be a good idea. Even with such a wisp idea of a beard you still look like a beautiful woman.’

‘Hush! What a thing to say about your brother!’

‘Sorry, you big manly man.’ And he clapped her on the back so hard she almost toppled from the cart. He smiled as he tapped the horses onwards. ‘And off we go!’

The road to Calais grew crowded with travellers, both coming and going. It was dark when they arrived. They found an inn and this time, at her insistence, shared the big male bed downstairs. It was unlikely they’d be discovered but the Executioner had friends. They’d not be safe until they were in England.

Although Maynard agreed with her caution, he thought there were more immediate dangers she should heed. He warned her to be careful of her clogs. When there were a lot of men getting up in the morning it was easy to lose a good pair of shoes.

She had no time to think of shyness for it was necessary to cling to Maynard for protection. She stayed close to Maynard all night and was so tired she didn’t have the energy to be nervous of, or disgusted by, sleeping in the musty, overripe smell of tired snorting, farting men. Maynard was always considerate towards her. He guarded her in matters of her toilet. And they both found their shoes in the morning.

They left the inn as early as possible. As they drew closer to the coast, the sea gulls and other curved unfamiliar birds wheeled through the sky, crying and shrieking. Charlotte was hypnotised by the water and watched the flurry of port activities with her mouth agape. People escorting livestock of all kinds, drivers with carts loaded with barrels and boxes, all followed their purpose and filled the air with shouting. Carriages moved out and came into the port. And the ships! There were different shapes and sizes of boats tied up and others floating out to the horizon. The flapping of sails, snapping of ropes, and grinding of hulls against land; every smack of the water and yell of outrage added to the cacophony such as the atmosphere teemed with ambition and hustle.

Charlotte found everything fascinating, much to the amusement of Maynard. For even though she’d travelled to Paris; even though she’d lived in Troyes, one of the great market towns of France, the energy of the port was much greater than the country market she was used to seeing as a child. This was the tide of commerce. This was economy. This was enterprise.

And Charlotte could smell the sea. It smelt of fish and salt and dried things. The wind was sharp and bitter cold. The rain knifed into her woollen jacket but still she breathed deeply absorbing all those unfamiliar odours.

They gave a pistou to a young fellow to mind the horses while they went together, for Charlotte did not want to be left by herself and Maynard did not think she should be the one talking in her thin womanly voice, to do their business.

As they walked, Charlotte stared at the sea, rising and falling in the grey, before she said, ‘I must touch it.’ Maynard followed her to a place where she could walk on a small beach, littered with broken wood, ropes and seaweed. She touched the water, did more than that, waded in and tasted it. ‘It really is salty!’

Maynard smiled at her as if she was a child, but she didn’t mind. She didn’t mind her wet feet and stockings even as she began to feel the cold. There was the horizon, the edge of the world. And here was the ocean! Filled with the creeping swimming creatures of the Lord! And turning back to land, here was industry and people and action!

Maynard pointed to the distant edge of water and said that was England. On a clear day it was possible to see it. Charlotte didn’t believe him. All she could see was water, deep grey-indigo water, ever-changing white-froth wave tops and grey lead clouds. There was certainly wind, and it was icy. Her feet were cold now and she stamped as they walked.

Eventually, they negotiated their passage on a brig, with room for luggage and space on deck. There was delay for the low tide, but luck was on their side, and the time passed quickly. During the hours of waiting Maynard negotiated a good price for the carriage and horses to be stabled for a week, assuming he’d return sooner to collect them. All depended on tides and which way the wind was blowing. It might take only three hours. But it might take all day and night. The wind seemed to grow more forceful the closer it came to leaving and some pessimistic soothsayers were warning against travel today.

But soon they climbed the gangway to find sailors all over the brig, heaving on ropes, and arranging cargos in different sized bales, barrels, and crates. As they climbed the unsteady steps, Charlotte reached out and took Maynard’s hand. It was a large hand, warm and strong, and her smaller palm sought more than stability. She did it without thinking.

Maynard squeezed her hand but let go. He needed two hands to negotiate his own travelling bag and the handrail. When they reached the deck, he bent to her and whispered, ‘Charlie. Brothers don’t hold hands. As much as it is lovely.’

Overcome with embarrassment, Charlotte looked down at the tarry boards beneath her feet and then up to see his smiling face. There was much in her heart she should tell him. It would have to wait until they reached safety. For now, she just looked at him and nodded.

He reached out and held her shoulder as he looked down at her. Then he patted it, as a brother would, and turned away to watch the sailors loading the cargo, especially to note her trunk as it was taken down to the hold.

Moving back to the handrail, Charlotte looked up to see the two masts incredibly tall, and the deck, surrounded by dirty handrails, with a slightly curved planking bending down to the side gutters, felt rather too small. She saw the sails flounced out along the bars swinging across the width of the ship. There seemed to be more canvas furled and bundled, she presumed, ready to hang out at the right time.

Charlotte smelled pungent wood and tar, hemp ropes and salt, fish, and sweaty males. It was difficult to find a place out of the way of the sailors. She was jostled, sworn at in languages she’d never heard before and shoved to a small place by the side. Rough ropes seemed to rise from every part of the ship. Men worked together; calling, heaving on coils of hemp that lifted, were untied, and made fast again. Sheets of canvas rose, flapped, and took shape as the wind found them, filled them and then they were moving, and Charlotte’s heart rose. She could not believe the water that stretched out so far ahead, nor the wind that seemed to be getting stronger while the waves grew higher and whiter with flashing foam.

They moved amongst other ships, great and small, making their way, driven by bustling busy sailors. Charlotte saw small fishing boats, other privately owned merchant ships, and a military ship Maynard called a frigate, with cannons lined along the sides moved slowly through the throng.

A seagull landed on the handrail near Charlotte. Her body was white, her wings grey and the tail feathers a dark stripe pattern. Her white splatter landed on the boards of the deck by Charlotte’s feet. The bird’s pink legs and feet, like branches, clenched onto the tarry wood. The beak was a sharp orange knife. The bird’s yellow eye was lined with black. It watched Charlotte for an eternity without blinking. Then the bird shook her sleek head into the wind and lifted her wings. For a moment the bird had weight and substance on the rail and then she lifted, flew, and wheeled around the ship before flying off towards England.

This time, close to them and out of sight of any curious viewer, Charlotte did place her hand over Maynard’s as they stood together, gazing out to a cloudy horizon. The boat’s movements became more erratic, and Charlotte clung to the handrail as they were jolted together. She laughed with him as the wind blew their hair every which way.

The clouds might hide a new world, a common future, but Charlotte was filled with hope.