The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1)

by Jack Cavanaugh

  “It’s a rather young face, I would say,” the cleric said, still amused. “Does the face have a name?”

  Drew considered his options. He could make up a name and try to bluff his way out of this predicament. He could take a sudden vow of silence. The problem was, he didn’t know how much trouble he was in. Was there a law against masquerading as a knight? Of course, if forced to, he could tell the truth.

  “Answer the cleric!” Elkins shouted, kicking Drew’s leg. The kick didn’t hurt; the armor took the blow as its maker intended.

  “I’ll take care of this!” the cleric shouted at Elkins. “And keep your limbs to yourself. Do you want to damage the armor?”

  Turning back to Drew, he repeated the question, this time more forcefully. “Does the face have a name?”

  Drew tried to nod, but pinned to the floor the helmet remained fixed in its position. Consequently, his nose slid up and down in the opening.

  “Well, what is it? Tell me your name, boy.”

  “Drew.”

  “Drew,” the cleric said, almost as if he were tasting the name. “Drew. Drew. Short for Andrew?”

  Drew started to nod again, thought better of it, and gave a simple affirmative instead.

  “Is that all? Just Drew?”

  Drew was hoping to leave his father out of this. Now there was no recourse but to act like a knight and take the consequences of his actions.

  “Morgan. Drew Morgan.”

  The cleric was taken aback. “Lord Percy Morgan’s boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see,” said the cleric, obviously displeased. With a grunt and a groan, he raised his bulk off the floor and stood towering over Drew. “Let’s get the knight up,” he said to Elkins. Then to Drew, “Can you lift your arms, Sir Morgan?”

  Drew raised both arms. The cleric grabbed one and the commoner the other. As they lifted him, the knight’s visor slammed down, causing a ringing in Drew’s ears.

  “Elkins,” the cleric said, “go to the hall and get Lord Morgan. Bring him to my room at the chapel.”

  “What about the boy, Your Holiness? What if he tries to escape?”

  The cleric closed his eyes and spoke in a tone usually reserved for children. “The boy isn’t going anywhere. In this outfit he can barely walk. I am confident I can keep up with him should he attempt to bolt.”

  If Elkins was insulted by the cleric’s condescending tone, he didn’t show it. He dutifully set out to fulfill his mission.

  “Take the helmet off,” the cleric instructed. “Let me get a better look at you.”

  Drew obeyed. As the helmet cleared his head, Drew’s gaze met the cleric’s cold stare. Drew lowered his eyes.

  “Look at me!” the cleric shouted.

  Drew’s head snapped up.

  “Always look a man in the eyes! Never look down! No matter how humiliating your defeat.”

  Drew forced himself to look into the eyes of the man who had caught him playing knight. At first it took great effort, for the cleric’s stare had the thrust of a broadsword, but the longer Drew looked, the easier it was for him to parry the cleric’s gaze with his own. And, unless he was mistaken, there was a touch of humor in the corners of those steely eyes.

  “Good,” said the cleric. He tucked Drew’s book under his arm and strode toward the door. “Follow me.” He strode toward the hallway without looking back.

  “What about my clothes?” Drew asked.

  “You’re wearing all the clothes you need for now,” the cleric answered, without turning around.

  Carrying the helmet under his arm, Drew followed—each clanking step announcing his presence—into the hallway and out to the courtyard.

  The moment he stepped outside, Drew wished he could turn around and go back. The king’s reception was over, and it looked like half of England’s nobility was milling about the courtyard. Heads turned toward him with the first clank of his armored foot on the cobblestone walk.

  Their response was silence, and Drew hoped they’d let him clank away into the night, but he wasn’t so fortunate. It just took a while for his presence to sink in. After all, there hadn’t been a knight at a royal reception for several hundred years.

  “Well, bless my soul! It’s Sir Lancelot!” someone shouted.

  Everyone roared with laughter.

  Several men hurried toward him. Drew walked away as fast as the suit of armor would allow. A balding man with a large potbelly who had obviously indulged himself liberally with the king’s wine pretended he was riding a horse. He challenged Drew to a joust.

  “If you’re looking for a virtuous maiden to rescue,” shouted a man with a dark-haired lady draped on his arm, “you won’t find one in this castle.” His lady friend shrieked with laughter and punched her escort in the ribs.

  The cleric seemed oblivious to the raucousness as he strode purposefully down the walkway past the keep and toward St. George’s Chapel. Drew did his best to keep pace.

  Seeing their sport getting away, two men grabbed Drew’s arms and attempted to turn him back toward the courtyard.

  “Leave the boy alone!” It was the cleric’s high-pitched voice.

  At first, the taunters were reluctant to release their source of entertainment until they recognized who had issued the command. When they saw the cleric holding the chapel door open for Drew, they released him immediately.

  Drew clanked toward the open door as fast as he could.

  “What’s with the knight, Your Grace?” one of the men shouted.

  The cleric answered him by shutting the door.

  Chapter 2

  “This book gave you away.”

  The cleric held up the book from Drew’s cloth bundle as he would a piece of evidence in court.

  Drew found himself standing in a small, sparsely decorated room behind St. George’s Chapel. The furniture consisted of a small wooden desk and two upright chairs, one behind the desk, the other beside it. Miscellaneous papers and maps littered the top of the desk, some of them hanging over the edges, anchored to the desktop by a stack of books. The only wall ornamentation in the room, besides a couple of candleholders, was a crucifix above the desk. This wasn’t the kind of office where someone would entertain guests, but more like a retreat in which to work uninterrupted.

  The cleric pulled out the desk chair and lowered himself with dignified ease. He made no offer of a chair to Drew, which was just as well because Drew wasn’t sure his sitting aim in armor was good enough to hit a chair. The cleric laid Drew’s book on his ample midsection and folded his hands over it. For a while he said nothing. He just studied Drew. Slowly, a parental smirk spread across his lips—the kind seen by children after they have been caught in the act.

  Patting the volume on his chest, the cleric said, “I knew where you were because of this book. The pile of clothes on the floor merely confirmed my suspicions.” A quizzical look formed on his bemused face. “Why was the book bundled in cloth?”

  Drew cleared his throat. “My father didn’t want me to bring it to London.”

  There was an uneasy silence as the cleric waited for further explanation.

  Drew fidgeted. The armor creaked. “My father thinks I spend too much time reading. So I hid the book in my clothes trunk.”

  “And it was your plan to read the book while wearing a suit of armor?”

  “No.” Drew blushed. “The reception was boring, so I sneaked out and got the book. I read for a while, then thought I’d explore the castle. This,” he motioned to his armor, “was sort of spontaneous.”

  The cleric lifted the book and read the title aloud, “The Days of the Knights by Geoffrey Berber.” He smiled a boyish grin. “I must have read this book fifty times when I was boy.” He looked up, unsuccessful in his attempt to stifle a laugh. “Trying on a suit of armor is exactly the kind of thing I would have done as a boy, had I the chance.”

  Drew fidgeted as the cleric turned his attention back to the book, flipping through pages as if looking for so
mething. Drew was perplexed. This wasn’t what he’d expected. The clergyman had browbeat Elkins and intimidated the drunken noblemen with a single sentence. When Drew entered the room, he’d prepared himself for an onslaught of righteous indignation. Yet in front of him sat a giddy cleric wearing a silly grin.

  Suddenly, the cleric snapped the book shut and said, “Who’s your favorite knight?”

  “Favorite knight?”

  “Your favorite knight. Surely you have one.”

  “Well,” Drew stammered as the armor squeaked, “I guess if I had to pick a favorite, it would be Sir Gawain.”

  The cleric’s brow furrowed. “Gawain? Gawain, not Lancelot? Lancelot was the greatest champion!”

  Drew fidgeted again. Evidently he’d picked the wrong knight. But at the moment he was experiencing a greater discomfort than being wrong. He ached to sit down, to fold his arms, to do anything but just stand there and creak. Now he realized why knights were always pictured standing straight and tall—it wasn’t because they were virtuous, but because they couldn’t bend over.

  “Lancelot was the champion,” he said, shifting the helmet to the other arm. “He was best at jousting and fighting, but he was weak morally. He couldn’t control his lust. And that weakness destroyed the Round Table and killed King Arthur.”

  “I see.” The cleric stroked his pointed beard with a mixture of amusement and thoughtfulness. “Tell me, Andrew. Have you ever felt as strongly for a woman as Lancelot felt for Guinevere?”

  “Of course!” Drew said.

  The cleric’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Well, maybe not as strong. But there are more important things in this world than women!”

  “Oh? An unusual statement coming from one who is … what? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “I see. Then tell me, Andrew, from the wisdom of your years, what things are more important than women?”

  “Justice, for one … and loyalty! That’s where Lancelot failed! He betrayed his king and his fellow knights when he bedded the queen.”

  The cleric laughed, but not in disapproval. “Are you sure you’re Lord Percy Morgan’s son?”

  Suddenly, a din of angry voices escalated from the hallway.

  As the door burst open, Lord Morgan stormed in, followed by Lady Evelyn and Philip, Drew’s mother and brother.

  Even when storming a room, Drew’s parents were every inch English nobility. Lord Morgan was a man who believed in putting his money on his back. His dark green velvet doublet with puffed, slashed sleeves was stitched with gold thread and lined with gems. Over the doublet he wore a heavily furred sleeveless gown. A gold chain and medallion, with the image of a sneering collared reindeer, dangled around his neck. He wasn’t a tall man, but what he lacked in height he made up for with noise. More than once Drew heard his father say, “A short man with a big voice is a giant.”

  If there was anyone in England who could match, and at times exceed, Lord Morgan’s volume, it was Drew’s mother. She was also her husband’s equal when it came to fashion. Here was a woman who was eternally grateful she lived in an age when discretion and modesty were not in vogue. From head to toe she dressed the part of a woman flaunting her status. For the royal reception she wore a wig of golden hair, far superior to her own lackluster brown covering. The wig had been fashioned by Lady Morgan’s hairdresser from the golden hair of a ragged beggar child she saw during a shopping trip to London. She lured the frightened girl into her carriage and offered her two pence for her hair. The passing of the coin and cutting of the hair occurred before the little waif had time for second thoughts.

  Lady Morgan’s golden wig was supported in the back by a rabato, a wired collar in the shape of wings and edged with lace. The front of the lady’s white dress featured a triangular stomacher, studded with precious gems. It was a flat piece of material that looked like an inverted triangle with a point at each shoulder and one stretching just below her waist. Her skirt flared fashionably at the hips. Its length was just short enough to reveal her gem ornamented stockings.

  Lady Morgan’s clothes were the envy of most of the court. However, she was not satisfied with most. She wouldn’t be happy until the entire court envied her. This she accomplished with her pearl necklace.

  Her jewelry for the reception had been the subject of intense planning and negotiation months prior to the event. She would not be satisfied unless she could create a jealous stir among the fashionable people of London that would last for weeks after the event. Her choice of jewelry had been specifically chosen to achieve this goal.

  The pearl necklace she wore was the crowning treasure of Sir Francis Drake’s famous voyage around the world. Drake acquired the necklace—along with so much gold, silver, and precious stones that the Golden Hind sailed home well below her watermark—in a series of raids on Spanish settlements along the California coast. Until now, the only woman in England ever to wear the necklace in public was Queen Elizabeth. Upon the queen’s death, the necklace was quietly returned to the Drake family, where it remained locked away until the Morgans purchased it.

  This reception was the necklace’s first public appearance in decades. And it graced Lady Morgan’s delicate white neck, which at the moment was red and strained in anger.

  Lord Percy: “We are the laughingstock of the kingdom! You have done some imbecilic things in the past, but never anything so—”

  Lady Evelyn: “Months of planning, a small fortune, and for what? Is everyone talking about the Morgan jewels? No, they’re talking about my idiot son walking around in a suit of—”

  Lord Percy: “You couldn’t have chosen a worse possible time! We waited for hours to talk to King Charles, and no sooner were we introduced—”

  Lady Evelyn: “—than this crude man barges into the hall and tells everyone that my son was caught sneaking around the castle wearing a—”

  Lord Percy: “You are the most stubborn and obstinate boy I know! When we get home—”

  “Lord Morgan!” the cleric shouted.

  Lady Evelyn: “I have never been so embarrassed in my—”

  Lord Morgan: “You will be whipped until your hide is—”

  “Lord and Lady Morgan! Will you please!!”

  The cleric’s voice was shrill, but it had volume and an authority that cut through the wailing of the two martyrs.

  Lord Morgan whirled around to see who dared interrupt him. When he saw the cleric who was now standing, Lord Morgan’s face drained of color. His mouth fell open.

  “Bishop Laud!” he stammered. “Your Grace, forgive me; I didn’t see you. The clod who informed us failed to mention it was you who was holding this worthless son of mine. Rest assured, the boy will be severely punished. His actions are idiotic, inexcusable. When I get him home, he will be whipped with a—”

  With raised hand, Bishop Laud cut off the nobleman. The room was mercifully silent. The bishop didn’t speak right away. Drew couldn’t tell if he was thinking or just enjoying the silence. As Drew shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the armor squeaked. His mother rolled her eyes and let out a disgusted sigh.

  The Morgan family parted as Bishop Laud made his way toward Drew. The bishop looked him in the eyes. Drew caught himself just as he was about to lower his eyes. Then he remembered the bishop’s words, “Don’t look down! No matter how humiliating your defeat, never be afraid to look a man in the eyes!” Drew held a steady gaze as he looked into the eyes of Bishop Laud, and the bishop smiled.

  “No harm has been done. Don’t punish the lad.”

  “If that is your wish,” sputtered Lord Morgan. “But may I say this is not the first time the boy has played the fool. If you ask me, the best way to deal with imbeciles is to—”

  “Andrew and I have a lot in common,” Bishop Laud interrupted. “A love of books.” The bishop patted the volume in his hand. “A love for Arthurian legend.” Turning toward Lord Morgan, the bishop continued, “I like your son. He has character and, I believe, a
great capacity for courage.”

  “We have tried to give him every opportunity, Your Grace,” Lady Morgan said, “but the boy is lazy and undisciplined. Even though we sent him to Cambridge—”

  The bishop turned. “You attended Cambridge?”

  Drew nodded.

  “I was chancellor at Cambridge. I’d like to reminisce with you about it someday.”

  “The point is,” Lord Morgan said, his voice rising, “the boy does nothing but daydream.”

  “The point is,” Bishop Laud countered with equal intensity, “I want him to come to London and live with me. I have work that suits his talents.”

  “You want to make my son a priest?” Lady Evelyn asked.

  The bishop snorted. “No, madam, not a priest. I need courageous young men for special assignments. He will assist King Charles and me in rescuing England from her enemies. Drew, are you interested?”

  “Yes, Your Grace. I’m interested,” he said.

  “Good!” boomed the bishop. To Lord Morgan he said, “Let me have your son for a couple of years. After that time, I will return him to you equipped to lead the Morgan family to unparalleled wealth and greatness.”

  Drew smiled. The bishop knew exactly how to get what he wanted from Lord Morgan. Drew’s father agreed.

  “Andrew,” the bishop said, “get out of that armor. Then come back and see me before you return home for your things. There’s something I want to give you.”

  Chapter 3

  The day he rode from Windsor Castle to London was supposed to be the exciting first chapter in the adventures of Drew Morgan. Instead, it was a nightmare of nagging delays. It was as if the god of the underworld had commissioned a score of mischievous demons to dog his steps and pull and tug at him in every direction except the one in which he needed to go.

  The morning began with promise. The journey from Windsor to London was a glorious ride. The wind slapped Drew’s cheeks with a chilly hand. His regal black steed’s strutting hoofs became a drum cadence announcing to the world that Drew Morgan was riding toward his destiny.

  He had never traveled to London alone, but today marked a new era. Today his mission was twofold: he rode on family business, to pick up a set of chalices his father had commissioned from a London goldsmith; more important, he rode for England, his first mission on behalf of the bishop of London.