The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1)

by Jack Cavanaugh

  “Kill him! Kill him!” she screamed.

  No blows came. No attack. Drew’s outstretched arms felt nothing. As his head slowly began to clear, Drew realized that the voices were distant. He turned toward their direction and blinked several times. Each blink brought a greater measure of sight.

  In the middle of the road he saw his fair maiden and a short, dirty man. They were chasing Pirate in circles. The girl was holding the reins, and the horse was rearing and kicking. The man cursed as he reached for the satchel. He would no sooner get a good grip on the book when Pirate would turn his head and bite the man. His bloody left arm gave testimony to several successful bites.

  “Hold him still! Keep his head forward,” the man shouted.

  “I can’t,” the girl shouted back. “Just kill him!”

  “Stop!” Drew shouted. Instantly he wished he hadn’t. The pain in the back of his head exploded with the word. His eyes glazed over again, then slowly cleared.

  The old man pulled a dagger from his belt. Pirate whinnied and tried to rear, but the girl pulled him back down. Drew started toward the thieves, holding the back of his head in an attempt to relieve the pain that stabbed at him with each step he took.

  “Pa!” the girl screamed, motioning toward Drew with her head.

  The old man swung around, his knife leveled at Drew. “Come here, boy,” he rasped. “There be cups at the bottom of that knapsack, and I’d be willin’ to bet they’re gold or silver. I want ’em, and you’re gonna get ’em for me.”

  “Cups?” Drew said with a puzzled expression.

  “Don’t you play me for a fool!” the old man yelled, running his hand through matted salt-and-pepper hair. “I felt ’em through the sack.”

  “Oh, the pewter cups,” Drew said. “They’re not gold and certainly not worth your effort.”

  “And what would a lad dressed in such fine clothes be doin’ carryin’ around four pewter cups?”

  “Who knows when you might run into three friends with a keg?” Drew said.

  “Ahhhh!” the man cursed and jabbed at Drew with the knife. Drew had to jump back to keep from being slashed. The horse reared again, and this time the girl almost lost him.

  “I’ll make ya a deal, boy,” the old man sneered. “You get the cups from the bottom of that sack, and I’ll let you walk away from here. The cups for your life. Deal?”

  Drew looked at the knife, the old man, the girl. He had never fought a man with a knife before; in fact, he had never really fought anyone before other than his brother when the little weasel goaded him. He needed some kind of weapon, but what?

  “I give you the cups, and you’ll let me and my horse be on our way?”

  “Don’t trust him, Pa!” the girl shouted.

  “I ain’t trustin’ no one!” the old man spit back at her. Then to Drew, “You get the cups out, then we’ll talk.” To the girl, “Prissy! You hold on tight to them reins, hear? Don’t let him grab ’em!”

  The man with the knife stepped away from the horse, but he stayed within striking distance. Drew approached Pirate, speaking to him in soothing tones. He patted the horse on the neck and looked at the girl. She was wild eyed and tense as she held the reins tight.

  It took Drew several minutes of working the book from side to side before it was free. When the book was two thirds out of the satchel, Drew gave one last pull.

  Just as the book popped out, the old man lunged at Drew, shoving him to the side. The weight of the book and the force of the blow sent Drew reeling. He stumbled but managed to maintain his balance.

  Holding the knife between his teeth, the old man plunged both hands into the satchel. He pulled out two of the silver chalices, held them up, and grinned victoriously.

  Drew saw his chance. With both hands, he swung the oversized book like a broadsword, and the volume smashed into the man’s face, knocking him to the ground. The thief grabbed his face and screamed as the knife cut into him. The chalices were sent flying. Blood poured from the man’s nose, a vicious cut laid open his left cheek, and his rotted back teeth could be seen through the open wound.

  Drew stood dumbfounded, still holding the book. The man struggled to his knees holding his crooked, broken nose with one hand and his sliced face with the other. A swift movement caught Drew’s eye. The girl had grabbed the dagger and was charging toward him, blade held high over her head. She lunged at him, and he raised the book to protect himself. The knife ripped through the cover and into the heart of the book. It was buried so far into the book that the girl was unable to pull it out for a second attempt. Drew shoved the book forward, sending the girl stumbling backward against her father. Then, he gripped the dagger and yanked it out of the book.

  The girl looked up at him in terror as her father whimpered at her feet. Drew stood over them both, the book in one hand and the dagger in the other.

  “Take your father and get out of here,” he said.

  The girl stared at him, her expression alternating between terror and confusion.

  “Go on, get out of here!” Drew shouted.

  Slowly, the girl helped her father to his feet. She glanced behind her at Drew several times before they disappeared into the woods.

  For a long time Drew stood staring after them. A trail of blood marked their departure. He couldn’t stop his arms and legs from shaking. His stomach retched and his head pounded in agony. There was no telling how long he would have been there if he hadn’t been moved to action by a new fear. What if the girl returns with help?

  With trembling hands and wobbly legs he picked up the chalices, rewrapped them in their cloths, and returned them to the satchel. As quickly as he could, he wedged the wounded book back in its place, mounted Pirate, and headed for Basingstoke. It took almost an hour for his shaking limbs to steady as his mind replayed the scene over and over. He realized how lucky he’d been. He might have been killed while he lay unconscious on the ground. He might have been stabbed to death. The thieves might have been successful in stealing his father’s precious chalices.

  The more he thought about it, and the farther away he traveled from the scene of the failed robbery attempt, the more he began to feel quite proud of himself. He’d handled himself well. He acted out of compassion when he stopped to help the girl. He fought with courage when he could have run away. It was his first battle against evil, and he’d emerged victorious.

  The lateness of the hour and the trials of the day had drained him of energy; nevertheless, he rode straight and tall, like a knight returning home from battle.

  Chapter 4

  King Alfred Inn was a medieval lodging house that catered to the rich and noble. For more than 150 years its wooden sign, hanging from a single beam jutting out above the doorway, welcomed kings and queens, dukes and duchesses, lords and ladies. Legend had it that the inn was Henry VIII’s favorite rendezvous whenever he was courting, which was frequently. According to legend, he shared the hospitality of the inn with four of the six women who eventually became his wives. The inn’s status grew from there, and its registry became a who’s who of English politicians and nobility, including those who simply wanted a place to rest after a full day’s journey or a lavish getaway to meet their secret lovers.

  The building stood boldly on the edge of the street. With only two steps, guests could exit their carriages and be inside the inn’s large dining room where they would be waited on like royalty.

  The inn’s namesake was Alfred, king of Wessex, popularly known as Alfred the Great. Alfred’s courage and compassion were part of English folklore, and storytellers gained a ready audience whenever they told of how the West Saxon kings laid down their arms to superior Danish forces, that is, everyone except Alfred. The lone dissenter secretly raised an army and attacked the Danes seven weeks after Easter 878, in the Battle of Edington. Not only were the Danes defeated, but their King Guthrum was baptized in the Christian faith, with King Alfred as his sponsor.

  Alfred the Great was an appropriate spiritual gua
rdian for English travelers because he himself was a well traveled man, including two visits to Rome, once in 853 and again in 855. His love for books dictated the decor of the inn that bore his name. Alfred believed that the best way to make England a leader of nations was to educate her young. He surrounded himself with books and even helped to translate a few essential volumes of his day into English. King Alfred Inn had a rather impressive collection of volumes, which Drew Morgan loved to browse whenever his family journeyed back and forth to London.

  Lord Percy, Lady Evelyn, and Philip had arrived in Basingstoke in typical fashion. Several of their servants preceded them, delivering to the innkeeper a list of the things the Morgans would require during their stay. Special emphasis was placed on what they would eat and who should and should not be invited to join them.

  At the first sight of the Morgan carriage, bell ringers heralded their approach. The mayor officially welcomed them when they reached the city limits, and a parade of officials and musicians ushered them to King Alfred Inn.

  In return for this lavish reception, the Morgans were generous with their praise and their money. Lord Morgan ostentatiously presented a sizable monetary gift to the city on behalf of the poor and needy.

  Everyone played his role to perfection, and thus the established order of society was preserved. If the city had not treated the Morgans in this fashion, the family would not have felt like nobility, and without nobility the commoners would question the financial stability of their country. If the Morgans had not showered the people with money in return, they would have betrayed the class of country gentlemen. Worse yet, if their generosity had been questioned in any way, people might think that the Morgans were not as wealthy as they seemed—which, in fact, was actually the case. Lord and Lady Morgan lived well beyond their means, and it was painful for Percy Morgan to release even a farthing. But, for sake of appearances, he swallowed his stinginess and loosened his purse strings while at Basingstoke.

  In this way, the Morgans appeared noble, the commoners were grateful, and English society was preserved.

  A stable boy appeared from nowhere with a lantern bouncing at his side before Drew had time to dismount.

  “Master Morgan?”

  Drew uttered an affirmative grunt as he dismounted.

  “We’s been expectin’ you for hours.” The boy, about six or seven years old, was wide eyed with concern. It was a look that recognized trouble and was glad he wasn’t in the middle of it.

  “Is my father angry?”

  The stable boy nodded, his eyes growing even wider.

  Drew reached under Pirate to unbuckle the strap holding the satchel. The horse offered no resistance. London’s heavy street traffic, the battle with the thieves, and the long journey had taken away all his fight.

  “We’ll get that for you, sir. You’d best go in straightway.”

  Drew pulled at the satchel strap. “No, I’ll get this—” The strap wouldn’t budge. He yanked again, this time hard enough that a tired Pirate felt obliged to issue a warning grunt. Still the strap didn’t move.

  “Hold the light under here so I can see this buckle.”

  The boy lowered the lantern, and Pirate’s mud crusted underbelly came into view.

  “So that’s why they didn’t just remove the satchel!” Drew exclaimed. “The strap is wedged in the buckle!”

  Drew stood up and began pulling at the bishop’s book. “I’ll take these things in myself,” he told the stable boy. “Have your blacksmith look at that buckle. See if he can get it off.”

  “Yes, sir.” the boy answered, as he watched Drew shove the huge book back and forth, working it out of the satchel.

  With an angry father waiting for him inside, a buckle that didn’t work, and a stuck book, it seemed to the stable boy that this particular traveler had an unusual number of things going wrong.

  As Drew worked to free the book, he began formulating his explanation for his delayed arrival. His premise was simple: While the rest of the family enjoyed a leisurely trip from Windsor to the lavish accommodations of Basingstoke, he had fought a pitched battle with a score of delaying demons and had barely survived a near fatal battle with thieves. He would convince them that instead of being castigated, he should be congratulated for his perseverance and triumph. The bishop’s book, the knot on the back of his head, and the thieves’ dagger would document his story. The crowning piece of evidence would be the silver chalices themselves. Against tremendous odds he would safely deliver them into his grateful father’s hands.

  As Drew removed the first of the four chalices from the satchel, the cloth covering slipped. A beam from the boy’s lantern hit the silver and bounced off, like a brilliant star. The beam of light gave Drew a wonderful idea. This chalice is my Holy Grail! It is the symbol of my victory, a reminder of the day I overcame the persistent forces of evil! Like a knight presenting the Holy Grail to his king, so I will present these four grails to my father.

  Drew hurriedly arranged the chalices for presentation. He unwrapped each one. Using the coverings like tablecloths, he draped them over the bishop’s book. Then, he arranged the four chalices on top of the covered book and placed the dagger in the center. He inspected his display admiringly; it represented battle and victory.

  The stable boy did his best to act like Drew’s actions were normal behavior for all the inn’s guests. It was not his position to be amused by anything his superiors might do, no matter how odd. As Drew carefully balanced his regal presentation with both hands, the stable boy opened the inn door. Drew stood erect, yet humble, took a deep breath, and entered the inn ready to accept his family’s praise.

  “Where have you been?” Lord Percy Morgan thundered.

  The voice came from the far side of the room. Although it looked as if things were breaking up, the mountains of bones and rinds, together with wine bottles scattered about the table and floor, suggested it had been quite a feast. Both parents were standing on the far side of the table; Philip was by himself at one end. There were still more than a dozen guests remaining in the room, but the mayor was not one of them.

  Before Drew took a second step inside the door, his mother shrieked. She was pointing at the chalices. Lord and Lady Morgan rushed to Drew and snatched the chalices off the book. With their backs to the guests, they tried to hide the chalices beneath the folds of their clothes.

  “Hey, Percy! Watcha hidin’ those silver cups for?” yelled one of the guests. Drew had never seen the man before. He reclined in his chair, belly up and very drunk. “Bring ’em over here. Let’s take a drink out of ’em.”

  Neither Lord nor Lady Morgan moved. “Give them to me,” Lady Morgan whispered. “I’ll take them up to our room.”

  Lord Morgan looked over his shoulder. The eyes of everyone in the room, dinner guests and servants alike, were on them.

  Suddenly, he cursed. With a wild swing he backhanded Drew across the face.

  Drew never saw it coming. The blow knocked him against the doorpost, slamming his injured head against the wood. There was a flash of light, then exploding pain as he slumped to the floor. He couldn’t see anything, but he heard the book and dagger hit the floor next to him.

  The blow was sufficient to cause Lord Percy to lose his grip on the two chalices he was attempting to hide. They clanged to the floor. Instantly, Lady Morgan dropped to her knees, attempting to hide them under the folds of her skirt. This time Lord Morgan stopped her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he shouted, pausing long enough to bend over and pick up the two silver chalices that lay on the floor. “May I be the first—no, make that the second,” he shot a sarcastic glance at Drew who was picking himself up from the floor, “to place on public display the newest addition to the Morgan family silver collection. Tonight’s unscheduled exhibition is compliments of my idiot son, Andrew Morgan!”

  Lord Morgan slammed all four of the chalices on the nearest table and led the room in mock applause for Drew. Through blurry eyes, everywhere Drew look
ed he saw people applauding and laughing at him, including some of the servants.

  “Why did you hit me?” he shouted at his father.

  “What’s this?” Lord Percy cried, his tone heavy with ridicule. “The idiot has a voice! He’s not dumb … just stupid!”

  Laughter erupted throughout the hall.

  “Why did you hit me?” Drew asked again.

  “Shut up and go upstairs to our room!” Lady Morgan yelled. Her arms were folded over her midsection; she rocked back and forth like a little child with a bellyache.

  “No!” Drew complained. “I want to know what I have done to deserve this kind of treatment!” Rarely did Drew go head-to-head with his parents; that was more Philip’s style. Maybe he was running on adrenaline from the successes he’d enjoyed earlier in the day, but he decided there was enough fight left in him for one more battle.

  “The boy wants to know what he’s done wrong,” Lord Percy shouted in disbelief. “Is there anyone in this room besides this dolt who doesn’t know that he’s done wrong?”

  A roar of hoots and guffaws went up. The remaining guests were clearly enjoying this spectacle that was proving to be more entertaining than the recorder and mandolin duet performed earlier in the evening.

  “All right,” Lord Percy said, placing his hands on his hips, warming up to his son’s public challenge. Lord Morgan proceeded as though he was bringing a petition of complaint to the Court of the Star Chamber. “Lord Chancellor,” he bowed to his big bellied, drunken friend; “members of the Privy Council,” he motioned to one side of the room; “and Chief Justices of England,” he motioned to the other side of the room. “I intend to prove to you that this dunce,” he pointed at Drew, “did commit the high crime of public stupidity.”