June 1509
London
Those bells are going to drive me mad!”
Sir Ralph Parrish grinned at Edmund in rueful agreement. The two men had come to celebrate the coronation of the new king. The old king, Henry VII, had died after a long illness, and now all England was waiting to catch a glimpse of Henry VIII, the man who would hold their future in his hands.
The London streets were packed to capacity, and indeed the bells of a hundred churches had been ringing since the day before the coronation. It was the custom for the new king and queen to ride in splendor from the Tower to Westminster on that day.
Edmund felt someone edging close to his back, and he turned to see a poorly dressed man with a red face, evidently drunk.
“Get away from me!”
“Come now, Winslow, you can’t blame him much. He’s been celebrating.” Parrish raised an eyebrow. “If they don’t come pretty soon, and if we keep on running into that tavern to drink, we ourselves won’t be able to stand up for the coronation.”
Edmund scowled and tried to think amid the deafening noise. “The new queen, Catherine of Aragon … Wasn’t she married to Henry’s brother, Arthur?”
“Quite a while ago. They were pledged when they were just children. And when they did marry, Arthur wasn’t much. He was always sickly, and he died five months after the nuptials.” Parrish laughed and shook his head. “The gossips all said that Arthur never availed himself of his bride in the bed.”
“That’s hard to believe. From what I hear, she’s a handsome woman.”
“Well, Arthur was a strange fellow.”
“It looks like they’re coming,” Edmund said. He stood on tiptoe to see, and then a question came to him. “But if she’s his brother’s widow, how can Henry marry her?”
“The whim of the pope is a fanciful thing indeed. Did you know I attended the wedding of Prince Arthur and Catherine? It was a pitiful affair really, not at all the sort of event you would expect from royalty. She’s lasted it out, though. After all these years she’ll be queen—look, they’re coming now.”
Indeed, the new king and the queen neared, and the narrow streets, choked with shouting onlookers, greeted them. Girls in white dresses held wax candles and waved them as the couple passed. Members of each craft and guild stood rank on rank along the procession route along with the Lord Mayor and the aldermen. All the clergy of the city had arrayed themselves in their most gaudy costumes and some bore great jeweled crosses before them. When the king and queen passed, they swung silver censers and blessed them.
In the midst of a sea of cloth of gold and silver, the embroidered velvet of the king stood out as the most splendid of all. He wore scarlet robes of the richest velvet furred with ermine. Sewn into his golden robe were diamonds, emeralds, pearls, and other precious stones, which splashed and sparkled.
“He cuts quite a figure, does he not? And he’s a big fellow, isn’t he?”
“Oh yes. He is large. Fine-looking chap too. If any man ever looked like a king it’s our Henry.”
“Catherine is a vision as well.” Surrounded by ladies-in-waiting all dressed in their finest, the queen wore white. Her thick, dark-red hair hung down to her waist, and she wore a jeweled circlet atop her head.
The two men remained there until the parade had moved on and the crowd had begun to disperse. Then Edmund said, “Well, we’ve done our duty, cheering them on. Now let’s fetch another drink.”
The men joined the throngs making their way to a tavern, with Edmund’s two servants following closely behind. He glanced back at them. Orrick, who was in charge of the field work, was a tall, rangy fellow with a thatch of brown hair falling over his forehead and a brown beard that covered most of his features. Nap, a stable hand, had not been at Stoneybrook for very long. He was a rotund, almost circular fellow.
“Look sharp, you two,” Edmund growled. “If a cutpurse manages to steal my money or his,” he said, nodding at Parrish, “I’ll take it out of your wages.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Orrick said. “We’ll see to it that you get to your beds this night safely with your purses intact.”
Edmund and Ralph Parrish shouldered their way through the crowd until they found a table and sat down. The servants moved to the wall to stay out of the way but keep watch over their charges.
Parrish called out, “Innkeeper! Some wine here! The best you’ve got.”
Edmund brought up his favorite subject: how hard it was to get workers. “It’s all that fellow Luther’s fault.”
“How is that, Edmund?”
“Why, he does away with order, of course. Gives the foolish impression that every man is as good as another.”
Parrish shook his head. “Well, that may do for the Germans, but it won’t do for Englishmen. The king would never admit that any man was as good as he is, and you’d never admit that Orrick was as good a man as you.”
“I wouldn’t!”
Two women approached, obviously prostitutes, and not in their first youth. One of them smiled, revealing bad teeth, and said, “You gentlemen seeking some comfort?”
“Not from you, Dolly,” Edmund said. “Move along now.”
The woman dropped her false smile and said under her breath, “Come on, Gwen, there ain’t no life in them two.”
Parrish drank deeply and called for more wine. “Too bad we’re married men. We could find us a couple of dollies. It’s a pity that marriage cuts down on a man’s wenching.”
Edmund stared at him glumly. “Mayhap our wives should encourage it,” he said, “if they themselves don’t enjoy the marriage bed.” Edmund felt little need to pretend. It was common knowledge that he and his wife, Edith, did not get along. “It’s not like I thought it would be—married life, I mean. A man ought to marry a young woman, a girl. A woman grown picks up notions, and those things aren’t good for people.”
Parrish studied the wine in his cup and then looked up. “I told you that before you married, Edmund. You should have continued your life as a confirmed bachelor. You were much happier company in those days.”
Edmund shook his head, drained his cup, and slammed it down. “I needed a son, Parrish, an heir. You know that.”
“You and King Henry. Trying to sire a male heir.”
“If only Edith was as comely as Catherine.”
Parrish smiled ruefully. “Think what a pickle England would be in if the old king hadn’t had Henry as well as Arthur. We’d have been stuck with a woman as our monarch.”
The two men sat there drinking for hours, discussing one gripe after another. Finally Parrish said, “What about Claiborn?
The title could go to him if you don’t get a son from Edith. Have you heard from him?”
“No, and I’d better not!”
“Come now, Edmund. He’s your brother. I suppose you know he’s serving as a mercenary again.”
“I hope he takes an arrow in his eye.” Edmund spat. “May he rot in the pit of perdition!”
“He might be your only solution in time.”
“I’ll have a son. You wait and see, Parrish.” Edmund could feel the heat upon his face, but he couldn’t help it. Hearing such words from his friend brought the betrayal back as if it were yesterday.
“You haven’t forgiven him for stealing your woman.”
Edmund sighed and cradled his forehead in his hand. “If he hadn’t stolen Grace, things would have been different. That woman knew her place.”
The Dowager Lady Winslow strode into the room with strength and purpose. “Edmund, I need to speak to you.”
Edmund groaned, suffering from a hangover headache after his festivities in London. He knew from her tone and stride that he would not enjoy the conversation to come. “What is it, Mother?”
“I have heard that all is not well with Claiborn. He has been forced to assume a position as mercenary for the Irish.”
“Hmm. Where did you hear such things?”
“Oh, a soldier from the next parish came back from the Irish wars, and he ran across your brother several months past. Claiborn sent a letter for me. He hoped to return to Grace and take a position as overseer for a farm near their land.”
Leah stood directly in front of Edmund, but he could not summon the strength to meet her gaze. “Please, Edmund, set the past aside, forgive him. Bring them home, where they belong.”
Edmund’s face immediately flushed with anger. “I won’t do it! I hate him, Mother! How can you even ask it of me? He stole the woman I was to marry.”
“You didn’t love Grace, but your brother did. In truth, he has as much cause to hold a grudge against you as you do against him. But you are Lord Winslow. It is your place to extend the olive branch.”
“Let me alone, Mother. I’ll never forgive him.”
Leah’s nostrils flared with barely disguised disgust. “Bitterness will kill as surely as a sword, Edmund. It might not be as quick, but it destroys as surely as poison or a dagger in the heart.”
“Be that as it may,” he returned, “my heart remains unchanged. Claiborn and his wife are not welcome here. Now depart in peace, Mother, and send a maid with some medicine for this headache.”
Lady Edith Winslow studied herself in a mirror. It was made of the finest polished metal and, unlike mirrors of less quality, managed to reveal something of a person’s appearance. She turned and viewed herself from another angle, then moved her face close to study her features. For a woman of thirty-four years, she had few wrinkles, far fewer than many a younger woman.
“Ellen,” she called. When the maid appeared, she helped Edith with her hair. She accidently jabbed her with a pin, and Edith cursed and slapped her face. The girl almost fell, as clumsy as she was simple. “Get out! Get out!”
The girl ran from the room and almost collided with Ives, Edith’s nineteen-year-old son from an earlier marriage. He laughed. “Why don’t you get a whip, Mother?” he said, leaning against the door frame. “You’re going to hurt your hand slapping her face like that.”
Edith glanced at her son, her mood lightening just from his presence. He was not tall but he was lean and had a fine head of dark hair. “If I had a whip, I’d use it on Edmund,” she said quietly.
“Good. Give him a smack for me, will you? I’m tired of the fellow.”
“Keep your voice down, Ives. What if he heard you?”
“Oh, he’s hiding, Mother, or drunk as usual. Don’t fret.” Ives selected a juicy pear from a tray of fruit and bit into it. “A new dress?” he mumbled, appraising her from head to toe.
“Edmund is taking me to the king’s court.” She laughed suddenly. “But don’t mention it, Ives. He doesn’t know it yet.”
Ives took another bite of the pear, still studying her with admiration. “You have certainly brought Sir Edmund Winslow to heel. Can’t call his soul his own.”
“It wasn’t difficult. The man has the backbone of an eel.”
“When will you force him to name me his heir?”
Edith turned back to the mirror and repositioned the comb in her hair before answering. “He still has visions of his own son, his own flesh and blood. But trust me, he’ll never get him.”
“You’re not too old to bear a child.”
Edith turned. There was a cruel smile on her lips. “I’m taking precautions.” She came over and put her hand on Ives’s cheek. “I’ll say it again. In time you will be Lord Winslow. That’s all you need to know.”
Ives appeared unconvinced. “What about Grace, Claiborn’s wife? You think Edmund’s still in love with her?”
“It wasn’t love spurned, Ives, it was a man’s pride put down.”
“It’s been long enough. Perhaps he’ll forgive them. That would put our plans in jeopardy.”
“Oh, he won’t ever forget what’s been done. I’ll keep his hate alive.”
Ives studied his mother for a long moment and then asked, “Did he ever love you?”
“No.”
“And you? Have you ever loved him in any way?”
“No, my sweet boy, I entered this marriage as he sought to enter into a marriage with Grace—as a benefit to my family, to me. As Edmund once said to me, love has no place in such arrangements. It only leads to disappointment.”