“Well, my home is east of Winchester.”
“You own or lease your home in Winchester?”
“Well, no, not exactly. It’s not my home, it’s my parents’ home.”
“I see,” said the scrivener. “You live with them?”
“No,” Drew replied. “Not anymore.”
“I see. Are you traveling to a new home?”
“Just traveling, no place in particular. I thought I might go to Plymouth and enlist on a merchant ship, unless something else came up along the way.”
“How long have you been a sailor?”
“Well, I’m not exactly a sailor, either. I mean, I think I’d like to be, but I haven’t ever actually been on the sea.”
The scrivener looked at the watchman.
“Vagabond,” they said simultaneously.
The scrivener donned his glasses and resumed writing.
“No, wait!”
But before Drew could protest any further, the scrivener of Edenford turned to the front of his volume and quoted, “A vagabond: One who has no dwelling house nor certain place of abode.”
Drew stood silent. He fit the description.
The scrivener continued writing.
“You’ll be held while we send for the high constable, at which time you will have an opportunity to defend yourself against these charges.”
“How long will that take?” Drew asked.
“A week, maybe more.”
“You’re going to put me in jail for a week?”
“We don’t have a jail,” the watchman said. “You’ll walk the streets with me during the day. Our night watchman will guard you at night.”
Drew envisioned himself being paraded around town with this potbellied watchman for a week. Everyone would see him. Their first impression of him would be that he was a criminal. How could he earn their trust after that? Had he compromised his mission already? How could he go back to London so soon? Eliot would ride him mercilessly. And the bishop would certainly be disappointed.
He could hear the bishop’s parting words, You’re just as qualified as Eliot for this mission, maybe even more so, because you’re smarter. He had to do something to salvage the mission.
“Surely there is someone here in Edenford to whom I might plead my case,” Drew cried.
“He don’t talk like no vagabond,” the watchman said.
“The law does not take a person’s vocabulary into account,” the scrivener shot back.
“But, sir, my honor as a gentleman is at stake. Surely I have a right to defend my good name before it is irreparably damaged!”
Pondering Drew’s question aloud, he said, “The law’s pretty clear about these things. But there is a meeting at the town house tonight. We could seek their advice on what to do with you until the high constable arrives.”
The Edenford town house was nothing more than a large, dirty barn adjacent to Market Street; it was lined with stalls, and soiled straw served as carpeting. The leaders of the town gathered shortly after sundown and were more than a little agitated over Drew’s presence. As they wandered in, many of them looked somewhat sourly on him; others asked suspicious questions about his recent whereabouts to which he tried to give courteous replies. There was a lot of finger pointing his direction, which made Drew wonder if his appeal to this gathering was a wise decision after all.
Drew was the first item on their agenda. They didn’t argue his guilt or innocence; the fact that he fit the description of a vagabond was good enough for them. Their discussion was about what to do with him until the high constable arrived. One man, who Drew later learned was the innkeeper, suggested the town put him up at the inn. Others objected that this would bring needless charge to the town. Finally, it was agreed that unless someone offered to shelter him, he would walk the streets with the watchmen.
“The boy is welcome to stay with me.”
All eyes turned toward the speaker. He was a kindly looking man of medium height with dark hair and eyes.
A giant of a man seated beside the speaker said, “That’s taking Christian charity too far. What about your daughters? What if he’s the one?”
The speaker looked kindly at Drew and patted his giant friend on his hairy arm.
“My offer stands,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Since no one had a better idea, it was agreed that Drew would stay with the unnamed man.
The scrivener then raised the question as to whether Drew should remain for the remainder of the meeting or be removed. The intensity of the discussion surprised Drew. He couldn’t imagine what a small village would have to discuss that would cause such anxiety among its people. It was finally decided that Drew would not be permitted to stay and that Cyrus Furman, the watchman, should wait with him outside the meeting place.
This seemed agreeable to everyone except Cyrus.
The watchman led Drew outside. As he did, a man beside the doorway grabbed Drew by the arm and issued a threat through dirty, clenched teeth. “If you so much as touch them girls, I’ll have your hide, boy!”
Cyrus Furman fulfilled the letter of his duty, but not the spirit. He took Drew just outside the town house, then stood near the door so he could hear what was going on inside. The loud, anxious voices of those inside carried well outside into the cool evening air, and Drew had no trouble hearing the discussion.
The town crisis had to do with a murder. A body had been found a short distance upriver from the north bridge. It was a recent killing and a brutal one. There were several stab wounds to the chest and back, and the man’s eyes had been gouged out.
“Has the body been identified?” Drew recognized the voice as belonging to the scrivener, Ambrose Dudley.
“It has,” an unknown voice replied. “It’s the body of Lord Chesterfield’s groundskeeper, Shubal Elkins.”
Chapter 10
Edenford was a village with a secret. Most everyone in the village knew there was a secret, but not everyone knew what it was. There were some who thought they knew the secret, but they didn’t; and those who knew were content to let those who didn’t know continue in their ignorance.
Situated on a sloping range between a river and a mountain, Edenford was known throughout England for its wool serges and on the Continent for its delicate lace. The city was founded upon wool by the Chesterfields.
William Chesterfield, Lord Chesterfield’s great-grandfather, was Edenford’s founder and first known resident. In truth, a long forgotten Saxon king was there before him, as evidenced by his castle on the hillside. But no one could remember the king’s name, when he lived or died, or anything about him. So, for all practical purposes, William Chesterfield was considered the town’s founder.
The first structure on the Edenford plain was nothing more than a hut erected by its enterprising founder. Having inherited a flock of sheep, Chesterfield set out to make himself a fortune, which he did quite handily. Succeeding generations of Chesterfields built upon their ancestor’s foundation until a traveler would have to journey almost five miles north to the outskirts of Tiverton before reaching the far side of the Chesterfield property.
William Chesterfield established the wool business in Edenford by increasing the size of his flocks and building houses for workers; his son expanded the family industry by erecting looms and huge dyeing vats and bringing in more workers; his son, Lord Chesterfield’s father, built Chesterfield Manor, expanded the family trade, and brought in even more workers; Lord Chesterfield collected rent, saved the best lace for himself, and lived lavishly off the fruit of his ancestors’ labor.
For almost one hundred years Edenford and quality wool products had been synonymous, but not until the Matthews family arrived did the village earn its reputation for lacework.
The wife of Edenford’s curate, Jane Matthews, worked a loom. She was a skilled worker, her hands were fast, her fingers nimble. However, she was bored with the repetition of her job and dreamed of doing something more challenging, more artisti
c— like making lace.
When her mother died, Jane Matthews inherited her mother’s meager possessions. Among them was some delicate bone lace from Antwerp. Jane had always admired the intricate patterns. To her they conjured up impressions of summer daydreams and wistful fantasies. More than anything she wanted to create some white lace fantasies of her own.
For years she scrutinized her mother’s Antwerp lace, following each delicate strand to its end. Then, while she was pregnant with her first child, she began her efforts. By the time her second surviving child was born two years later, she began showing her work to some of the townspeople who were favorably impressed. When her girls reached their twelfth and tenth birthdays respectively, word had reached Lord Chesterfield of her product, and he called her to Chesterfield Manor to examine her work. He was impressed, not only with the quality of the lace but also with the opportunity to make even more money. Jane Matthews was taken off the looms and set to work exclusively on lace.
Demand for her lace far exceeded her ability to produce it, so Lord Chesterfield ordered her to teach her craft to others. Although many of her students were competent, none could match the elegant work of Jane’s lace, that is, until her two daughters took an interest. At the time of Jane’s death, her oldest daughter’s lace rivaled that of her mother.
Jane Matthews died of consumption during the winter of 1627. It was a deadly winter for all Edenford. Fourteen people died, nine of them children. Publicly, Lord Chesterfield expressed the proper amount of grief over Edenford’s loss, especially the loss of Jane Matthews. Secretly, however, he was quite pleased with himself. Because he had insisted on Jane teaching others her craft, his lace industry would be unaffected by her death; her daughters would simply take her place.
Jane Matthews had been dead for nearly three years when her husband, Christopher, invited Bishop Laud’s spy to stay with him and his family.
“Ugly business.”
Drew’s host led him past the village church situated on the edge of a grassy, tree-lined common.
“It’s hard for me to understand what would motivate one man to kill another,” he said, “and harder still to understand mutilating the body.”
It was the same road that brought Drew into Edenford. It had a three arch stone bridge at each end, both of them crossing the River Exe. To a traveler this north-south highway was a mere detour on the road between Tiverton and Exeter. That is, unless Cyrus Furman stopped him.
“I saw Cyrus standing near the door,” Drew’s host continued. “Can’t blame him. This killing is making everyone nervous. Anyway, I assume you heard everything, even though you were voted out.”
Drew looked at his host. There was no outward guile in the man. He was slightly undersized, but stocky and solid. Deep wrinkles around his eyes and bushy black eyebrows gave his face a look of constant concern.
“It was hard for me not to hear what was being said,” Drew said.
The host laughed. It was a hearty laugh, nothing bashful about it.
“There are a lot of things that can be said about the townspeople of Edenford,” he said, “but being timid or quiet is not one of them!”
“Forgive me, sir,” Drew stopped in the middle of the street as his companion turned a corner leading uphill away from the town common, “but I don’t know who you are or where you’re taking me.”
His host turned toward him with a sheepish grin.
“No, it is you who must forgive me,” he blushed. “I’m afraid my manners have been distracted with all this turmoil.”
He extended his hand.
“I’m the curate of Edenford. My name is Matthews, Christopher Matthews.”
A slightly wicked grin crossed Drew’s face as he gripped the man’s hand. He couldn’t believe his good fortune.
The moon lit their way as Christopher Matthews led his guest up a sloping road away from the village green. They turned left onto High Street, an upper road that ran parallel to the main thoroughfare. This road was not nearly as wide or as well pitched as Market Street. It was a cobblestone lane lined with a series of small residences wedged against one another. The houses huddled together, as if bracing themselves against a common enemy. Supper smells of boiled fish and roasted beef filled the lane; the din of clearly audible voices and the dancing light of candles peeking through cracks in the shutters added a family element to the street. This was a close community in every sense of the word.
Matthews didn’t slow down until they were one house shy of the end of the street. Had they continued walking, they would have walked into a cornfield. The curate reached for the door latch of a thin dwelling of two stories. The lower half rested on a granite stone foundation. Two shuttered windows to the left of a narrow wooden door filled the width of the house. Wooden beams jutted out overhead, supporting the second story and providing a covering over the doorway. Above the beams four smaller windows framed by white paneling looked out over the cramped street. A person could easily lean out the upper window and join hands with someone in the window of the house opposite. The entire edifice leaned noticeably to the left, a fact that would have concerned Drew, except that there were more than a dozen houses on that side to hold it up.
“This will be your jail cell for the night,” Matthews said with a wry chuckle. When Drew didn’t smile back, he said, “Forgive me, friend. It was a poor attempt at humor. Both Cyrus and Ambrose mean well. They are just doing their jobs, protecting the town. If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about the charges. When the constable gets here on Market Day, we’ll get everything resolved. You don’t strike me as the dangerous sort. If I thought you were, I never would have volunteered to bring you home with me.”
I’m more dangerous to you than you think, Drew said to himself. He was trying hard to dislike the curate, but finding it increasingly difficult to do.
Matthews swung open the door.
At first glance, the girl setting the dinner table on the far side of the room made no strong impression on Drew. The sound of the door caused her to look up, throwing back her dark brown hair, revealing sparkling brown eyes and a relaxed, warm smile. It soon became evident that the sparkle and smile were reserved for her father. When she saw Drew, her eyes clouded with suspicion, and a tight, nervous line replaced her smile.
“Good news, girls!” Matthews announced cheerily. “We have a handsome houseguest!”
The unsmiling girl at the table folded her arms. With knives in one hand and spoons in the other, she looked like an armed griffin on a knight’s coat of armor.
A happier reception came from the stairway to the left.
“Poppa!”
A slender form flew down the steps and jumped into Matthews’ ready embrace. From her build it was clear she was no child, but still she was small enough to get lost in her father’s arms. Bright blue eyes peeked around her father’s shoulder for a look at the stranger. Her long, straight hair, fair complexion, and pixie smile staggered Drew. There was something about her that touched him as no other woman had, a stirring inside of him so powerful it was almost frightening. For the first time in his life Drew Morgan understood how Lancelot must have felt the first time he laid eyes on Guinevere.
“Master Morgan, allow me to introduce my two greatest earthly treasures. This is my elder daughter, Nell,” he gestured toward the unsmiling girl at the table.
Drew bowed slightly. Nell returned a nod and a curt, “Master Morgan.”
“And this bundle of giggles,” he squeezed the younger girl, “is Jenny. We just celebrated her sixteenth birthday.”
“Master Morgan,” she said coyly.
Drew mustered up a chivalrous tone in his voice. “Always pleased to meet a fair maiden,” he said.
An exasperated sigh came from the far end of the room.
“May I speak with you, Father? In the kitchen?”
Not waiting for a response, Nell deposited the utensils in a heap on the table and stalked through the doorway.
If Matthews was embarrass
ed about being summoned to the kitchen, he didn’t show it.
“You can put your things over there, next to the fireplace,” he said to Drew. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Jenny trailed after her father, her long brown hair bouncing side to side. There was a quick, smiling glance backward before she disappeared into the kitchen.
Drew found himself standing alone in the curate’s humble home.
Humble was an understatement. Before him was a long narrow room that featured a common eight-foot fireplace on his right and a narrow staircase leading upstairs on his left. The fireplace, which was presently boiling supper, was the main source of light for the room after the sun went down. There were two candles on the dinner table and a soft light coming from an unknown source at the top of the stairs. The entire room was half the size of Drew’s bedroom at Morgan Hall.
The furniture consisted of six chairs and two tables. Four straight back wooden chairs were arranged around the larger table, which had been left unset for dinner; a fifth chair was pushed into a smaller table under the twin windows overlooking the street, to Drew’s immediate left. Stacks of lacework, lead weights, scissors, and balls of wool yarn cluttered the tabletop. A high-backed rocker sat motionless in front of the fireplace on a large woven rug, the only covering for the wooden floorboards.
Drew unslung his bag from over his shoulder and placed it quietly beside the fireplace. He was reminded of his confiscated cutlass and made a mental note to ask the curate about it.
A variety of whispers drifted through the open kitchen doorway, but Drew couldn’t make out what was being said. He thought about edging his way toward the kitchen, then decided against it.
The secret to learning people’s secrets is to act uninterested, Eliot had instructed him. Don’t be in a hurry to get information. Be patient, be friendly, and look for ways to earn their trust. That’s the best way to get the goods on them.
Besides, the risk wasn’t worth it. There was little doubt he was the subject of conversation in the next room. No matter which way the verdict went, he was determined to make every effort to stay at least for dinner.
The Puritans (American Family Portrait #1) Page 14