The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1)

by Jack Cavanaugh

  His passport to royal adventure was a letter he carried close to his heart, signed by the bishop of London himself, authorizing the loan of a book from the bishop’s personal library. This was why Bishop Laud had wanted to see him again before he left Windsor.

  When he handed the letter to Drew, the bishop instructed the new assistant regarding his assignment. “Andrew,” he said, “England’s greatest enemy is no longer Spain, nor any other continental force. The greatest threat to England today is sedition from within. The minds of many Englishmen are filled with heresy, and their hearts harbor sedition. You cannot tell them by their dress, for some are rich, some are poor. Yet their hearts are evil. They freely walk the streets of every city and village, parading innocent faces. It is our crusade to unmask these traitors and prosecute to the death those who would seek to destroy England. Ours is not an easy task, for we seek cowards who prey on weak minds, while hiding behind a cloak of anonymity.”

  The bishop showed Drew a pamphlet, the cover of which had a woodcut picture of a dog with Bishop Laud’s face and wearing a bishop’s miter. “This is a sample of their work,” he said. Turning to an inside paragraph he read,

  Laud, look to thyself, be assured thy life is sought. As thou art the fountain of all wickedness, repent thee of thy mountainous wickedness before thou be taken out of the world. And assure thyself neither God nor the world can endure such a vile counselor or whisperer to live.

  The bishop folded the pamphlet. Patting it, he said, “The wretch who wrote this has been caught and punished. He was unmasked by the diligent work of a young man, much like yourself. Listen carefully to what I say. Always be alert to every bit of conversation, every scrap of evidence that might uncover the writers, printers, and publishers of seditious tracts like this one.”

  A pained expression crossed the bishop’s face. He looked like a man suffering a recurring malady. “There is one writer in particular,” he muttered. “I want him. Justin … not his real name. I’m sure of that. If you hear anything about Justin, the smallest scrap of news, I want to know about it immediately! Understand?” The muscles in the bishop’s jaw tensed as he spoke; the flesh of his face was blood red. Drew was glad he wasn’t Justin. He’d hate to be the object of the bishop’s anger.

  Drew nodded submissively.

  “With God as my witness,” the bishop swore, “I … will … have … him!”

  The bishop’s emotional storm passed quickly. Moments later he was cheerful again to the point of giddiness. “Give Timmins this letter,” he said with boyish excitement. “It instructs him to give you one of my favorite books, better than Berber’s The Days of the Knights! You’ll love it, of that I’m sure.” Placing his hands on Drew’s shoulders, he said, “Andrew, come to me in London as quickly as you can.”

  Drew’s mission to London today was fortuitous. While there he could pick up four silver chalices his father had commissioned from a goldsmith on The Strand. This would not only save the Morgans from having to make the side trip to London, considering their son’s exploits in a suit of armor the day before, but it would also limit their risk of further public ridicule.

  Lord Morgan had intended to give Drew directions to the goldsmith’s shop. However, Drew woke early, and, anxious to begin his journey, he left before his father was awake. He wasn’t aware he needed directions—he knew which goldsmith his father patronized.

  It would take Drew the better part of the morning to reach London. He would pick up the bishop’s book and his father’s chalices and then meet the family at the King Alfred Inn at Basingstoke before dark. There, Lord Morgan would flaunt the finely crafted silver chalices before his old friend, the mayor of Basingstoke, and amuse himself with the mayor’s futile attempts to suppress his envy.

  That was the plan—before the score of mischievous demons were loosed against him.

  To enter London, Drew crossed Knight’s Bridge, an event that he thought was no small coincidence as he began his first assignment for the bishop. He urged Pirate, his black steed, right at the triple fork that split north to Paddington, east to St. Giles, and south toward the Thames.

  Pirate was feeling especially ornery that day, undoubtedly goaded by the demons. On a good day, he was quick to respond and seemed to crave adventure as much as Drew. On a bad day, and this was one of his worst, he was vicious.

  Drew rode straight to London House, the city residence of the bishop. He rapped on the wooden door, which, a moment later, swung wide to reveal a large round man wearing a large white cooking apron.

  To say the man was round was an understatement. It was almost as if God pieced him together using balls of flesh. His round head sat on a round body. He had no visible neck. Two round breasts, as large as any woman’s, poked out both sides of the apron, balancing precariously atop a protruding round belly.

  “Ah! You’re a young one,” he said, his cheeks like red balls glued to the corners of his mouth, which bounced back and forth when he talked. “And what might you be wanting?” He vigorously wiped his plump hands with a towel.

  Out of politeness, Drew removed his cap. The gesture obviously delighted the man, for the red cheeks bounced to the far sides of his face, separated by a gap-toothed grin. “I’d be wanting … I mean, I’d like to speak to Mr. Timmins.”

  “Oh, now that’s a pity,” he said, digging the towel deeply into the crevices between his fingers. “You’ll not find him here today. You’d best come back on the morrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” There was a touch of panic in his voice.

  “There now,” he said, taking Drew’s predicament to heart. “If your business is urgent—”

  Drew nodded that indeed it was.

  “—you might look for him at Whitehall.”

  Whitehall meant delay. Drew would have to go there, find Timmins, then come back here to get the book. It would take much too long.

  “Maybe you can help me,” Drew said.

  The idea seemed to please the round cook.

  “Could you get a book for me from the bishop’s library? I have a letter from the bishop—”

  The cook recoiled, his mouth as round as the rest of him. “Oh no! I couldn’t possibly go into the bishop’s study without his permission!”

  “But I have a letter—”

  The round cook’s head bounced back and forth vigorously.

  “Is there anyone else who could help me?”

  “Only Mr. Timmins, I’m afraid.”

  The demons of delay were pulling him toward Whitehall whether he wanted to go there or not.

  Two hours later Drew stood impatiently beside a sundial in the Privy Garden at Whitehall, the residence of King Charles I. The gardens were composed of sixteen blocks of assorted grass, flowers, and hedges laid out in a four-by-four square pattern. Drew knew there were sixteen blocks because he had counted them, several times. He had also watched the sun clock creep along its dial for more than an hour and a half while waiting for Timmins.

  An expressionless palace guard had ushered him to this spot, telling him to stay put and not wander around. By the way the guard fondled the hilt of his saber, Drew thought it best to obey his instructions.

  Finally, a short, balding man with a precise, businesslike stride approached him. A puff of snow white hair rimmed the back of his head from ear to ear. His posture was rigid and his hands were clenched.

  “Are you the young man with a message from Bishop Laud?”

  “Are you Mr. Timmins?”

  “Don’t be impertinent, boy. Do you have a message?”

  “I’m sorry if I seem impertinent, sir, but my letter is for a Mr. Timmins.”

  “I am Timmins!”

  Without saying another word, Drew handed him the letter.

  Timmins opened the letter, glanced at it, and swore. “A book?” He crumpled the letter and threw it into the hedge. Then he turned and stomped away.

  At first, Drew didn’t know what to do. Retrieving the letter, he straightened it as he ran after Timmins. D
arting around the official, he planted himself in Timmins’ path.

  “I apologize if this is an inconvenience for you, Mr. Timmins, but coming to Whitehall to find you was an inconvenience for me. I’m leaving London within the hour. The bishop wants me to take this book with me. Are you going to follow his instructions or not?”

  Timmins scowled at him with such anger that Drew would have felt more comfortable standing at the pointed end of the palace guard’s saber.

  “Be at London House in precisely an hour and a half.” Timmins marched past Drew toward the palace.

  An hour and a half? Drew could almost hear the demons howling with glee.

  Morning passed into early afternoon, and Drew was still in London. At least there was some consolation to his predicament. He could pick up his father’s chalices in the interim. That would take about half an hour, giving him an hour of free time in the city he loved.

  For Drew, London was everything home was not. The constant rumble of the carts and coaches was the heartbeat of a vibrant city; except for the frequent banshee cries of his mother, Morgan Hall was silent and dead. London was constantly changing, every day bringing a different challenge; at Morgan Hall the only challenge was to escape the constant bickering—his father screaming at his mother over money, his mother shouting at whoever was within sight, his brother whining and sniveling about.

  As Drew and Pirate navigated the jumble of merchants, construction workers, and water carriers who crowded The Strand, he broke into a laugh. In a few days, this would be his new home. Men and women huddled on street corners, the sound of hammers beating in the background. Women with jugs gathered at the community water tankard which was running full tilt. Sweating porters labored down the street under the weight of their burdens. He loved it.

  There were over fifty goldsmiths on The Strand. Drew rode straight to the shop where his father did business. However, when he inquired about his father’s chalices, the owner of the shop, a man named Carados, said he had never received an order from Lord Percy Morgan for four silver chalices. Drew insisted the chalices had been ordered. The answer came to both of them at the same time. Lord Morgan had ordered silver chalices, but from another goldsmith. Carados was enraged.

  “Twenty years I endure his insufferable bickering over prices! Twenty years I sell to him for less than anyone else. And what does he do? Stabs me in the back! I’ll bet he went to Bors! That cutpurse! Ingrate! Out! Get out! And tell your Judas father I wash my hands of him!”

  Fifty goldsmith shops on The Strand. Which one had his father’s silver chalices? The demons roared.

  Bors. Carados said it was probably Bors. Might as well start there. But where was Bors’ shop?

  A half an hour had passed by the time he located the small goldsmith shop owned by Simon Bors. The scene inside was similar to the one in Carados’s store. Lord Morgan had promised the job to Bors, but the order was never placed. Now Bors knew why and he was livid. Drew was thrown out of his second goldsmith shop in one day.

  Now what? There were still forty-eight other goldsmith shops, and he didn’t have a clue where to begin.

  “Psst! Over here!”

  A scrawny man called to him from an alley. Drew recognized him as one of Simon Bors’ shop assistants. He was motioning frantically to Drew. “For a pound, I’ll tell ya who made your father’s chalices.” The man’s eyes never rested, darting this way and that, startled at the slightest movement.

  “A pound!” Drew looked at the man suspiciously.

  “I’m the one who steered your father toward the better deal.” He held out his hand for the money.

  Drew didn’t trust him, but what other choice did he have? He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pound. Clenching it in his fist, he said, “First, the name of the goldsmith.”

  “What do ya take me for? A common thief?”

  “First, the name.”

  “All right,” the man conceded. “Gareth.”

  “And where would I find Gareth’s shop?”

  The man muttered a curse, “You are a babe in the woods, aren’t ya?”

  Drew started placing the coin back in his pocket.

  Another curse from the shop assistant. “At the far end of The Strand, just across from the stone cistern.”

  Drew handed the man the coin.

  “Tell your father next time to send someone who’s been weaned,” the man sneered.

  The far end of The Strand. Where else would it be but at the far end of The Strand! The traffic in the street increased. The demons were ganging up on him now, goading every person, animal, and cart to get in Drew’s way. The closeness of all the people and animals created an unbearable stench. Nerves were raw. Tongues were sharp. It took him twice as long as it normally would, as he was jostled the length of The Strand. By now Pirate had had his fill of the city. He balked at Drew’s handling and even tried to bite a pedestrian, luckily getting only the man’s hat.

  Finally, an exasperated Drew reached Gareth’s shop. The goldsmith was eager to show his handiwork to Drew, but Drew was in too much of a hurry. He would never get back to London House on time. Pity. Gareth was one of the few friendly faces he had seen today.

  Drew loaded the chalices, each one wrapped in velvet, in his satchel. He mounted Pirate and set out to travel the length of The Strand one more time.

  “I said precisely an hour and a half!” Timmins shouted, as the door to London House flew open. The round cook stood in the background, wringing his plump hands. “Do you think I have nothing better to do than play governess for some inconsequential whelp?” Timmins threw an oversized volume at Drew and slammed the door.

  The size of the book caused Drew to stagger. It was an enormous volume, much larger than he’d expected. He was beginning to wonder if he was going to have to carry it all the way to Morgan Hall on his lap. With a good deal of effort, he was able to wedge the book into his satchel. The chalices lay in the bottom, so a third of the book stuck out. The flap of the satchel wouldn’t begin to stretch over the top of the book, but it didn’t matter. The book was wedged so tightly in the satchel that nothing was going to fall out.

  The sun was low in the sky before Drew was finally ready to embark on the last leg of his journey. However, the pesky demons weren’t about to let him go without a parting shot. Just as Drew reached for Pirate’s reins, the horse bit his hand, crushing his finger and slashing a dark red gash across his palm.

  Drew took the horse ferry across the Thames. The river slapped lazily against the wooden sides of the ferry. Unlike Drew, it was in no hurry. In response, Drew fidgeted impatiently; he had to make up for lost time. Already it was late afternoon, and Basingstoke was still a half-day’s ride away. He wouldn’t arrive until well after dark, and his father would be furious.

  The ferry reached Lambeth landing, and Drew urged Pirate into a gallop, hoping to outrun the demons that had dogged him all day. He was a good hour south of London when he saw her lying on the side of the road in tall grass next to a wooded area. A donkey grazed only a few feet away. As he got closer, Drew could hear a weak moaning. Her blonde hair was scattered in disarray around her head, her face was covered by her forearm.

  Jumping from his horse, Drew rushed to her side. The woman was young and obviously poor; her clothes were tattered and her forearm soiled. The stains were old. They were not the result of her recent accident.

  She started as Drew touched her arm.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said. He gently lifted her arm from her face. Drew guessed her to be about fourteen or fifteen years of age. She was remarkably pretty. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing sparkling blue eyes. At the sight of him, she struggled to sit up. She faltered and Drew grabbed her shoulders.

  “Thank you for stopping, sir,” she said in an innocent, sweet voice.

  Drew was captivated by her beauty; never had he seen such a fair maiden. Most of the young women he knew labored unsuccessfully for hours to reproduce this woman’s natural features—her ch
eekbones were set high and colored with a slight blush, her eyes were framed with lashes like the rays of the sun, and her lips were so full and lovely that it was a sensuous pleasure just to watch them form words.

  “Are … are you hurt?” Drew stammered.

  “I don’t know,” the fair maiden answered, arching her back and swinging her head from side to side, apparently testing for pain. “It was so kind of you to stop and help me,” she purred.

  Drew lowered his eyes in modesty. “I couldn’t just ride by and leave you lying here. It’s something anyone would do.”

  “No,” the maiden protested, “not just anyone—”

  Drew looked back up.

  The fair maiden’s face was twisted, distorted by a wicked sneer. “—not just anyone,” she snorted, “only a fool!”

  Thud! A thick, jagged force slammed into the back of Drew’s head. He slumped into the arms of his fair maiden. She pushed him off. The last thing he remembered was the tops of the trees against a late afternoon sky.

  The shouts of angry voices stirred him awake. Where was he? Home? It wouldn’t be the first time he was awakened by verbal warfare.

  “Just kill him!” one of the voices shouted. It wasn’t his mother’s voice.

  Drew’s eyes snapped open, but all he could see was grass.

  “Kill him!”

  He remembered now. The girl … the pain. He was lying in grass facedown.

  “I’ll hold him, you kill him!”

  Drew tried to jump up. His attempt was checked by a stabbing pain in the back of his head.

  “I’ll hold him, you kill him!” the voice shouted again. Drew recognized the voice. It was the woman he had stopped to help.

  Fighting the pain, he struggled to his knees in the tall grass. The throbbing was so intense it blurred his sight and drugged his sense of balance. It took several efforts to rise up on his knees. He held his hands in front of him, hoping to ward off his attackers until his head cleared.