Chapter 6
Five miles past Kirby Muxloe, Leicestershire
As the sun rose behind the cloudy sky, flurries of snow swirled in the breeze, and Prescott guided his steed from the stableyard onto the Leicester road.
The innkeeper, who had learned from the doctor of Prescott’s purpose had forced on him a packet of hard biscuits.
“I made ‘em with oats, so you can share with your horse. My stable boy’s been feeding that horse up. That gelding’s as ready as can be. God keep you Captain.”
“And you,” Prescott had replied as he left. He’d appreciated the kindness of the doctor and the innkeeper. When he succeeded in his current quest, he’d find a way to return and reward those generous folk.
Within moments the flurries became sheets, driven near sideways by the increasing wind. Prescott could see nothing but white. He slowed from a trot to a walk.
He leaned close to his mount’s neck. “I must trust you, now. You’ll follow the easiest path, I know. I believe you’ll get us to Leicester in time. When you do, I’ll buy you from Trehallow, and you shall never have to carry another rider, you shall always be warm and well fed. I promise.”
With that he fell silent and rested against the horse’s warmth.
He drifted in and out of sleep. His chest ached, still, but the physician’s intense treatment had lessened the infection enough that Prescott rarely coughed.
Usually, it was his stomach’s grumbling that would stir him into wakefulness.
He’d take the time to break off a piece of snow softened biscuit and feed it to his horse before taking his own bite.
Pausing just a few chilly moments, they would set off again
Night fell, and he passed through the silent village of Dunton Bassett without even looking for an inn.
He’d long ago lost sensation in his feet and hands.
Thank heaven for the horse’s heat or he’d have frozen to death.
Kirby Muxloe passed in much the same way.
As the sun rose on December 24th, peeking through occasional breaks in the clouds, Prescott’s horse rounded a bend in the road and came to a complete stop.
The lack of motion stirred him from a snooze. A coughing fit seized him. Thus, it was some moments before he could take in the scene.
Simultaneously, two coaches, one curricle and one stagecoach, had tried to cross a narrow bridge over a frozen stream. No doubt the snow had blinded each driver to the presence of the other vehicle. The wind would have masked any sound until much too late to prevent the disaster.
One of the curricle’s lead horses lay still on the road, the remaining seven horses, were inextricably tangled in the conjoined harnesses. A man stood at the head of the remaining lead, attempting to calm the beast.
The stage coach lay on its side. The driver and a coachman stood on the upward side with the door of the coach open, and were trying to extricate a screaming woman.
Prescott did not stop to think but brought his horse up to the coach. “Hand her to me,” he shouted above the howling wind.
“Aye,” the driver shouted back.
The screaming woman filled his arms. Prescott turned his horse, made for the end of the bridge where a few pines offered some small shelter. It took precious moments, but he spoke calmly to the woman, crooning assurance as he would to a child.
When he at last set her down near the trees she was quiet, if still shaken.
“My husband, my child, please….”
“Fear not, madam. I’ll return with them anon.”
Back he went, and received a lad of about eight from the driver.
“That was sparking great fun,” the boy burbled. “I want to do it again. Are you the sheriff? You’re not going to nab the driver, are you?”
Prescott ignored all the questions handing the boy to his mother and returning to the coach.
“Oww! Watch what you do, you fool of a driver. You’re hurting me.”
“I’m sorry, sir. But we have to remove you from this coach. Just a bit more.”
The driver and coachman pulled. The man should have pushed, helping to move his bulk, but he didn’t.
“You there with the curricle,” Prescott shouted. “Get these horses untangled and out of the way.
Then he dismounted, tied his reins to the canted boot of the coach and clambered up to help.
“Who are you? If you’ve come to rob us, you’ll find nothing of value.”
Prescott shook his head, and grabbed the man beneath one shoulder. Pulling with the driver and coachman he succeeded in lifting the corpulent gentleman. They lowered the man to the ground where he shook off their hold as if their touch would harm him somehow.
The shrug upset the balance of all three.
Prescott fell, but managed to catch onto a coach wheel and lower himself the rest of the way to the ground.
The coachman toppled into the coach. The driver tilted backward, his arms pinwheeling but could not save himself.
He went over the edge of the coach landing with a sickening crunch on the ice-covered bridge.
Prescott raced to his side.
“What about me?” the rescued man hollered.
The driver lay still as death.
Prescott checked for breath and a pulse. Finding them, he shouted orders.
“Coachman?’
“Aye sir. I am here.” His head stuck out of the coach door opening.
“Can you help me rig a travois from pieces of the coach?”
“Aye. I’ll get me axe from the boot.”
“I say this is most improper. I’m a paying customer and should be tended to first,” uttered the fat man. “I insist you leave these malingerers and take me and my family to the nearest inn.”
Prescott ignored him.
The man from the curricle came over. “What can I do to help?”
“Have you a knife? Prescott asked.
“Aye.”
“Start cutting up the harnesses for a travois.”
“Well, I never.” The fat man stalked off. He could be heard arguing with his wife.
How long it took, Prescott could not have said. By the time the unconscious driver had been strapped onto the travois and one of the horses harnessed to the makeshift sledge, he was sweating despite the chill that slowed his fingers and the more frequent coughing bouts.
The coachman had mounted the harnessed horse. “I’ll get him to the last village. Thank you for your help, sir.”
“Thank you and God keep you from more snow.”
“Aye, I’ll second that,” the curricle driver said.
“What about them,” Prescott murmured.
The two men looked over to where the woman and her son huddled next to the screen of pines. Her husband was slipping and sliding his way in the same direction as the travois.
“Can you help them get to the nearest village?” Prescott asked.
“Aye. But you seem to be in bad case, sir. Come with us.”
Prescott shook his head. “I’ve an urgent need to be in Leicester by Christmas Day.
The curricle driver cast a glance at the sky where clouds were crowding out the sun.
“There’s more weather on the way. I’ll pray for you.”
“And I you.”
The man walked off, and Prescott fed his horse a piece of biscuit before mounting and threading his way through the remnants of the accident.
On the far side of the stream, he urged the gelding to a slow trot until the snow once more flew too thick for sight.
The day darkened, and he coughed more and more.
The sweat continued. Most likely he had a fever.
He swayed in the saddle so much that he took time to lash himself in place.
Night fell. He’d no idea how long ago he passed through Kirby Muxloe or even to what village the dark shapes of buildings he rode by belonged.
It had to be sometime close to midnight because he heard snatches of a choir raised in song when the wind would let up for a moment.
“…Born this happy morning, Jesus, Lord at last…” lingered in his ears just beneath the scream of the icy wind.
He returned to leaning against the gelding’s neck.
“You’re a fool, Prescott,” Betts’ teasing replaced the choir. The windy howls faded from his hearing.
“I am more sane than any other man,” he’d joked in return.
“I don’t believe you, for you have just begged me to marry you. Me, the poorest of ladies, daughter of a ne’er do well squire who will bring a brother, two sisters and a mountain of debt into any marriage she might make. Only a fool would propose to such.”
“Nay,” he’d insisted. You are not simply beautiful, you are kind, generous, industrious, thrifty, have experience as a mother and in many wifely duties. In addition, you are tremendous fun to be with. I could wed no better woman, for no better exists.”
“Are you sure,” she sobered.
“Certain as the channel separates England from the continent.”
“Hmm. That’s fairly certain. Very well. We will marry. Just as soon as you return from the wars and you sell your commission.”
The horse stopping once more brought him round. The sun had come out. Buildings crowded the street. A boy pulling a sled loaded with wood approached.
“Say, you there.” Prescott motioned the lad closer. He cast his arm out toward the shops lining the street. “What place is this?”
“Why Leicester, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
“Lived here all me life, so I should know.”
“And St. Martin’s church, how do I get there from here?”
The lad shook his head. ‘Are you daft? ‘Tis St. Martin’s right there.”
Prescott lifted himself up and followed with his eyes the line of the boy’s pointing finger toward the left. His head swam.
I made it.
“What…” coughing seized him.
The boy stepped away, fear on his face.
“What d…day?”
But the boy had run off.
Prescott pried at the knot of the rope keeping him in the saddle.
It refused to come loose. He tore at it.
Dug in with his fingernails. Watching carefully because he could not feel.
His nails broke. His fingers scraped raw, bled into the hemp.
It was enough to soften the knot, and it slipped loose with a speed that toppled him into the snow beside the gelding.
Pain exploded as his head struck something hard.