“What’s troubling you?”
“Huh?”
Drew looked up from his book. He was sprawled over the arms of a chair in Bishop Laud’s library. The bishop, seated behind a desk overflowing with papers, laid his pen aside and studied the boy.
“You’ve been staring at that same page for a long time.”
Drew cleared his throat and sat up.
“My mind was wandering.”
The bishop didn’t return to his work, apparently waiting for a more specific response.
“I was thinking about my last assignment.”
“A first-class job, Andrew,” the bishop exclaimed. “I couldn’t be more pleased. In fact, I was thinking—” He rose, stretched, and came to the front of the desk. Resting his bulk on the edge, and scrunching several pieces of paper in the process, he continued, “I’m going west on a trip. A hunting trip actually, although I despise the sport. But the king has requested I accompany him, and I’ve declined too many similar invitations already. I’d like you to go with me. It’ll be a good break for you, just what you need. And your company would make the trip more pleasant for me.” He paused. A sly grin appeared on his face as he said, “Besides, you’ll meet an old friend there.”
“Oh?”
“Elkins.”
Drew furrowed his brow. He didn’t recognize the name.
“You know—you met him at Windsor Castle.”
The bishop’s grin grew enormous.
“At the time, I believe you were wearing a suit of armor.”
Lord Chesterfield’s manor was a spacious mansion designed and built by a promising young architect named Inigo Jones. Traditional in design, the exterior of the manor was formal and symmetrical; from an eagle’s viewpoint it would look like a giant capital E. Inside were splashes of the architect’s promising genius, with vaulted ceilings and serene pastoral paintings.
The mansion lay on the edge of a gently sloping grassy expanse that led down to the edge of the forest where the royal hunt would be held. Drew leaned against the building, with arms folded, and surveyed the gathering of hunters through squinted eyes. The sun had barely peeked over the horizon, backlighting the costumed figures as they buzzed about. There was a chill in the air; puffs of breath hung in front of people’s faces as they talked. The grass was heavy with dew, revealing a myriad of trails as the hunters crisscrossed back and forth across the lawn.
Drew was in no hurry to join them. He was content to lean against the mansion and feel the sun’s warmth. Closing his eyes, he retreated to the privacy of his thoughts. He hadn’t wanted to come to Devonshire, but Bishop Laud insisted, saying it would do him good. The four day journey to the southwest of England proved both interesting and boring. Nothing exciting happened along the way, and the trip was long, but he had never journeyed to this part of the country, and the anticipation of new discoveries around every bend in the road was a mild form of entertainment. The bishop was also right about the healing benefits of a holiday. The farther Drew traveled from London, the less he was haunted by the disfigured faces of Mary Sedgewick and Marshall Ramsden. This morning there was only sun, grass, trees, and the promise of an uncomplicated day.
“Well, if it isn’t Sir Drew!”
Drew smelled him before he saw him. Elkins. The groundskeeper’s breath was the rancid odor of stale beer, and he looked like he was wearing the dirt and sweat of a week’s work. Grinning yellow teeth lingered inches away from Drew’s face.
Drew closed his eyes without responding. In truth, he couldn’t think of anything to say. How does one defend one’s right to be caught wearing a suit of armor? He just wished the smell would go away and take Elkins with it.
“Now, laddie, is that any way to treat a friend who is the bearer of urgent news?”
“News?” Drew open his eyes.
“Why news from Lady Guinevere, o’ course,” Elkins guffawed. “She’s in her chamber waitin’ for ye, if ye know what I mean.”
“You’re disgusting. Leave me alone.” Drew closed his eyes again.
“What kinda knight are ye? Every knight I know is always ready for action.”
Exasperated, Drew took a deep breath, which he regretted immediately. The warm pungent odor of the unwashed groundskeeper nearly choked him.
“Excuse me,” Drew said, pushing his way past Elkins. “I think the bishop needs me.”
“I’ll join ye,” Elkins said, falling in step with him. “The bishop and me’s got a meetin’.”
Drew surveyed the sloping lawn for the familiar round figure of Bishop Laud. Everywhere he looked, lords and ladies were dressed in their finest hunting attire. The scene before him was more like a costume party with a hunting theme than an actual hunt. Men with plumes in their hats flirted with ladies in full dresses wearing a touch of jewelry and an abundance of frills. The guests gathered around low tables set underneath the outstretched limbs of majestic trees. A crystal stream ran along the base of the slope, jumping and splashing over smooth rocks.
The tables were laden with cold veal, cold capon, beef and goose, pigeon pies, and cold mutton. And, even though it was early morning, there were wagons and carts filled with barrels of wine, not rotten drams but noble wine rich enough to make men’s hearts swell.
Everywhere he looked, Drew saw people making extraordinary effort to balance their gaiety and nobility; too much of the one and they could be accused of acting like commoners; too much of the other and they would miss all the fun.
A waving motion caught his eye. It was Bishop Laud gesturing for Drew to join him. At first, he had to shield his eyes against the sun to verify that it was indeed Bishop Laud. There were two others standing with the bishop. He couldn’t quite make out who they were. In fact, he wouldn’t have recognized the bishop except that he had seen the same pudgy arm movements hundreds of times before.
The bishop didn’t get out often, so he exercised daily by holding books in both hands and elevating them over his head. The movement that caught Drew’s eye was the exercise minus the books.
It wasn’t until Drew was a few steps from the threesome that he recognized one other member of the party—Charles, King of England.
“Your Majesty,” the bishop said, “allow me to introduce Andrew Morgan.”
Drew bowed from the waist. “Your Majesty.”
“So this is the young man you have been telling me about,” the king said, appraising Drew with an amused eye. “The bishop’s quite taken with you, young man,” he continued, “and he’s not easily impressed.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” Drew bowed again.
The thirty-year-old king was surprisingly personable, a trait not inherited from his stiff and humorless father, James. Before now, Drew had seen the king only from a distance. Up close, the monarch’s most striking features were his calm, almost lazy eyes framed by a full head of long, dark hair. His ready smile was punctuated with a mustache and pointed beard, which had become the fashion of English noblemen. Long, thin fingers cradled an ornamented goblet.
A quick glance behind the king revealed that everyone around them—lords, ladies, magistrates, court officials—were spectators of this royal conversation. They still carried on their own conversations, to be sure, but always kept a ready eye and ear in the direction of the king.
“And this,” the bishop gestured to the third man of the party, “is Lord Chesterfield, our gracious host.”
Chesterfield nodded toward Drew. His countenance was as cold and stiff as the ruffs he was wearing. Drew had never seen so many ruffs and so much lace on a man. From his mother’s lifelong passion for delicate lace, Drew had become quite familiar with it. Lord Chesterfield’s lace was the finest he had ever seen.
Drew returned Lord Chesterfield’s nod.
“I’m really quite surprised you came,” the king said to Bishop Laud.
“You invited me, Your Majesty.”
“I know, I know,” the king waved off the obvious remark with his goblet, spilling wine everywhere. “But I was sure you would dig up some emergency that would keep you in London. You always do.”
The bishop’s face turned red. “My only wish is to serve you,” he replied weakly.
“Oh, don’t be so blasted sensitive, my dear bishop,” the king said with an exasperated tone. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” Turning to Lord Chesterfield, the king added in a stage whisper, “The bishop isn’t much of an outdoorsman. However, I’m sure he would be a more willing participant if you had stocked your park with Puritans instead of deer.”
Lord Chesterfield laughed obligingly at the royal humor, a laugh that was cut short when a boy about eight years old with messy black hair darted between the king and himself. Chesterfield made a kicking motion at the boy but missed. Then he gestured to Elkins who had halted a discreet distance from them.
Elkins muttered a low curse and chased after the boy.
“Excuse my son, Your Highness,” was all Chesterfield said, but he was obviously infuriated.
Drew unsuccessfully tried to suppress a smirk. He recognized the parental fury in Lord Chesterfield’s face. It wasn’t long ago that he was the little boy running around at regal functions. Today he stood with the king of England, Bishop Laud (without doubt the second most powerful man in the country), and a prominent nobleman. In a few short months he had risen to prominence. But he was most proud of the fact that he was recognized for his actions on behalf of England, not for how much wealth he had. His grandfather, Admiral Amos Bronson Morgan, had consorted with the queen of England. Today, Admiral Morgan’s grandson carried on that noble tradition. This was a day Drew would never forget.
At Lord Chesterfield’s signal the trumpets announced the beginning of the hunt. The grassy expanse became a seething staging ground for horses, hounds, and hunters. Well-bred mounts mirrored their masters’ nobility as they allowed preening touches from stable workers. Dogs barked and strained at their leashes as masters rubbed vinegar on the hounds’ nostrils to increase their scent. With great pomp Lord Chesterfield paraded his magnificent greyhounds. He had a full kennel of bloodhounds, but since this would be a sight hunt, he chose the greyhounds. Besides, the speed of his dogs would shame the slower bloodhounds of his guests. The hunters inspected their bottles to ensure they carried enough wine with them, checked their weapons, and gave one last kiss or witty remark to their ladies before embarking on the hunt.
To say the event was a hunt gives too much credit. Although many of the assembled were expert hunters and falconers, this particular event was a social event, and so the killing was staged. Once the trumpets sounded the hunters would storm the woods, which had been stocked with over four hundred deer, chasing and shooting anything resembling an animal. They would do this until another trumpet call would gather them to a staging area where a paling had been erected. The servants would flush the deer from the woods into a funnel of pales. The frightened animals would be packed together by the narrowing fence, and the nobles would kill them. This was a gracious host’s way of seeing to it that every guest went home with a kill.
“Drew, I want you to come with me.” The bishop pulled at Drew’s arm. The cleric was carrying a crossbow and some arrows. Drew smiled wryly. There was something about a churchman with hunting weapons that struck him as odd.
“Do you know anything about these things?” the bishop asked.
“The crossbow?”
The bishop was examining the weapon as if he didn’t know which end to point away from himself. In answer to the bishop’s question, Drew took the weapon and loaded it. Trumpets sounded. The bloodhounds were cast off, and Lord Chesterfield let slip his greyhounds. There was a thunder of hoofs as the party descended into the forest. Drew carefully handed the loaded bow back to the bishop.
“Have you ever shot a crossbow?” Drew asked.
“When I was younger…much younger.” The thought of younger days brought on by the feel of the crossbow seemed to fill the bishop with a youthful vigor. He took a deep breath and said, “You know, I feel good being out here. I just may get one of those deer today. Wouldn’t that be something if I could get one in the wild? I could mount its head in my library, in that space over the small desk next to the fireplace. That would be a good spot for it, don’t you think?”
Since coming to live at London House, Drew had seen Bishop Laud in a variety of moods, from depression brought on by intense anxiety to his present state of giddiness. Drew liked the bishop this way best.
“Let’s go get my deer!” The bishop started jauntily down the hillside toward the forest. “Where’s Elkins? He’s supposed to join us.”
“I’m sure we can get your deer without his help, Your Grace,” Drew offered.
The bishop swung around with a surprised look on his face.
“‘Your Grace’? Why so formal, Andrew?” An eyebrow raised as he caught on. “Ah, it’s Elkins, isn’t it? You don’t want him coming with us.” The bishop put his arm around Drew and spoke softly. “I share your feelings. He’s a dirty, disgusting creature, but he serves our purpose for the time.”
Scanning the area the bishop spotted his Devonshire informant near the edge of the forest. The groundskeeper had apparently caught up with Lord Chesterfield’s son, and now the person chasing had become the person chased. The boy was buzzing around the groundskeeper like a pesky bee, jumping at him, grabbing first an arm, then a leg. Elkins was trying to shoo him away.
“Elkins! Come here, I need you!” the bishop yelled.
The groundskeeper turned and nodded, lectured the boy with a stern finger, then proceeded toward the bishop. The boy was unimpressed. He attached himself to Elkins’ leg like a leech.
“Son, go away!” The bishop made a shooing motion with his hand. “Go on, we have business. Go on, I say.”
The boy released the groundskeeper. He stood, hands on hips, and sized up the bishop, as if debating whether this was a voice to be obeyed. The boy chose not to challenge the bishop, or maybe he just thought of something better to do, for he ran toward the woods and disappeared.
With his hunting party assembled, the bishop and the others entered Lord Chesterfield’s wooded park, going in the opposite direction from all the other hunters. This was for two reasons: First, the bishop had business to discuss with Elkins and didn’t want to be overheard; second, Elkins claimed to know a place where the deer fed. This fueled the bishop’s desire of getting a deer in the wild.
Drew lagged behind slightly. He was doubtful they would see a deer, let alone come close enough to shoot one. Elkins’ smell would frighten them all away.
As they stalked through the woods, the groundskeeper gave his Devonshire report to Bishop Laud in a loud whisper. There was a strong Puritan element in Devon, Elkins told him. Feelings and commitments ran deep, but so far there had been no outward actions he was aware of that could be prosecuted. He reported that although Lord Chesterfield was not sympathetic to the Puritan cause, he didn’t want to persecute them because they were industrious workers and good tenants. Their products, especially their bone lace, were of the highest quality and brought a handsome profit. Chesterfield didn’t want to do anything that might endanger this revenue.
Just that morning, Elkins continued, the local curate of Edenford, a man by the name of Christopher Matthews, delivered the yearly wool production report to Lord Chesterfield. Upon hearing the name of the curate, the bishop held up his hand for Elkins to stop. The bishop searched his memory for a moment, then bid the groundskeeper continue. Elkins said he overheard his master talking to the curate.
He quoted Lord Chesterfield as saying, “As long as you do your work and pay your rent and keep your beliefs to yourselves, you will be left alone.”
This last statement brought a loud “Humph!” from the bishop, loud enough to frighten a rabbit from under a bush. The animal darted in front of them, ran down the path a short way, then slipped into heavy brush.
“Oh no!” Elkins cried. His eyes were wide, and his mouth had a strange twist to it.
Drew couldn’t believe the man’s fear. What kind of groundskeeper is this to be frightened by a hare?
“The hare! It’s an evil omen!” Elkins cried.
“Nonsense!” said the bishop, continuing forward.
“If by chance by the way,” Elkins was quoting from some unknown source, “you should find a hare, partridge, or any beast that is fearful, living upon feeds or pasturage, it is an evil sign or presage that you shall have but evil pastime that day!”
“I say it again, superstitious nonsense!”
The bishop, with Drew right behind him, pressed on down the narrow path. The shaken groundskeeper reluctantly followed from a distance.
Their business concluded, Bishop Laud returned to his earlier giddy nature as he stalked through the forest with his crossbow, calling out to the deer in a singsong whisper.
It was a curious sight in Lord Chesterfield’s forest that morning: three would-be hunters crouched in a line as they sneaked up on the feeding grounds, an oversized bishop leading the way and carrying the only weapon, followed by a skinny would-be adventurer, with a filthy commoner trailing behind. It would be a miracle indeed if this unlikely hunting party even saw a deer.
“I never knew hunting was so exhilarating,” the bishop whispered back to them.
The groundskeeper held a dirt crusted finger to his lips, signaling quiet. Then, with the same finger, he jabbed the air, pointing just beyond a thick row of bushes. The deer’s feeding place. As quietly as his inexperienced bulk would allow, the bishop pushed past the bushes with the crossbow at the ready.
His disappointment was unmistakable.
When Drew made his way into the small clearing, he saw a tiny brook but no deer. As if to vindicate himself, Elkins pointed out every evidence of their prey. He showed them the trees upon which the deer frayed their antlers; from the height of the marks on the trees he judged their height and said the marks indicated the deer’s antlers had a crowned top. Judging from one set of tracks he guessed one of the deer to be an adult buck; the heel marking was large and widely cleft.
But the bishop wasn’t interested; he was too disappointed at not finding something to shoot.
Suddenly, there was a rustle in the bushes to their right. The three hunters froze. Another rustle.
Drew’s heart was pounding as he watched the wide-eyed bishop raise the crossbow at the thick row of bushes. The bushes moved again, as if an animal was eating berries from them. The bishop took aim. It was definitely a larger animal, not a rabbit. The bishop steadied himself.
Elkins whispered to him, “Hold your breath before you shoot.”
The cleric drew a deep breath and held it. The bushes rustled again. Drew smiled; Bishop Laud would be telling people about this kill for years to come.
There was a click and whoosh as the bishop fired. The arrow slipped through the air and penetrated the bush with a thud. A second heavier thud indicated the bishop had hit his target. There was the sound of feet pawing helplessly at the ground, then silence.
“You got it!” Drew shouted.
“Excellent shot, Your Grace!” Elkins echoed.
The short, chubby bishop straightened himself to full height. In his mind Drew could already see the proud cleric relishing in the event before King Charles and their host. To have excelled in this manly sport would increase the bishop’s stature among all the men in the king’s court.
The bishop handed the crossbow to Drew and triumphantly proceeded behind the bushes that concealed his prey. He spread the bushes apart and then froze.
Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. The bishop’s shoulders slumped, and he made a whimpering sound.
“Bishop?”
No response. The bishop stood there, dead still.
The bushes were so thick, Drew had to steady himself on the bishop and lean around him to see what the cleric was staring at. Fear gripped his throat when he saw it.
Lord Chesterfield’s son!
The bishop’s arrow had pierced the boy’s left cheek and was protruding out the back of his head. His left hand still gripped the arrow’s shaft. He was trying to pull it out when he died.
“My God, forgive me!” Bishop Laud sank to his knees and wept.