© 1987 by Gilbert Morris
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7029-0
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
Cover illustration by Dan Thornberg
Cover design by Danielle White
To Stacy Lee Smith
Who makes being a father
the easiest task in the world!
CONTENTS
Cover
Title-page
Copyright-page
Dedication
PART ONE
BEDFORD
1. Power in the Blood
2. Lydia
3. A Young Man’s Fancy
4. He That Findeth a Wife
5. The Sky Is Falling
6. Bedford Jail
7. The Trial
8. End of a Man
* * *
PART TWO
PLYMOUTH
9. Rachel
10. King Philip
11. Out of the Past
12. A New Man
13. Death in the Winter
14. The Winter Is Past
15. Captive!
16. “God Is Still in Control!”
* * *
PART THREE
SALEM
17. A New Minister
18. A Brotherly Kiss
19. The Hunt Is On
20. Bridget
21. A Time to Die
22. The Trial of Rachel Winslow
23. Take Me Home!
PART ONE
BEDFORD
1659
CHAPTER ONE
POWER IN THE BLOOD
“Catherine, there he is—Matthew Winslow!”
The speaker, a short young woman with sharp features, grabbed at the arm of her companion. The pair had just turned off the narrow path that followed the curving coastline onto the main road leading up to the settlement.
Her companion, a tall, willowy girl of twenty, turned a pair of curious dark eyes on the horseman approaching from the other road. She wore a simple blue dress set off by a white collar, but its plain cut did not conceal her fine figure, and there was a boldness in her direct gaze that most young women of Plymouth did not possess.
“So that’s the young dandy that’s been interrupting your dreams, is it, Martha?”
“Catherine! If you ever breathe a word—!”
“Oh, don’t worry,” the tall girl laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me.” She gave the rider a closer look and tapped her chin slowly. With a light of speculation she murmured, “So this is the famous Matthew Winslow who’s broken the hearts of half the young women in Plymouth!”
Martha suddenly giggled. “Half? Catherine, I don’t think there’s a maid in all Plymouth who hasn’t set her cap for him!”
The taller girl gave an impatient shake of her head, and her lips tightened. “And his head is probably as big as that horse he’s riding, I’d venture. Martha, he may be the answer to a maiden’s prayer in this little place, but in Boston—”
“Shhh! Here he comes!” Martha gave a tug at Catherine’s arm, then shook her head in wonder, saying in a whisper, “I knew he’d come! It’s almost witchcraft the way he finds a pretty woman, Catherine—you could blindfold him, and he’d still know.”
The two women had reached the dusty road that led up to the fort just as the object of their conversation arrived from the opposite direction. He looked up, saw the pair, then touched his horse with his spurs, driving the animal toward them. Wheeling the jet black stallion around, he dismounted with a motion so easy and fluid that he seemed to flow to the ground. The horse tried to throw his head up, but was held by an iron grip; the handsome rider swept his hat from his head, then bowed in a courtly gesture.
“A good day to you, Miss Martha.”
His words were directed to the shorter of the two, but Catherine Brent knew instantly that she was the object of his attention. It irritated her, for she felt like a quarry of some sort—he the hunter and she the trophy he sought. As she heard Martha say, “This is my cousin, Catherine Brent, from Boston,” she gave Matthew Winslow a direct stare.
Her eyes scrutinized the young man before her—tall, over six feet, with a shock of rich auburn hair. His face was bronzed, wedge-shaped, the wide mouth lifting at the corners as he smiled at her with a frank inspection. His ears were rather small, his nose straight, and there was a suggestion of tremendous strength in the corded neck and wide hands. He was wearing a red velvet coat and breeches, yellow waistcoat with ruby buttons, and shoes with gold buckles. The brown hat held under his arm, had a large yellow plume, and despite the summer heat he wore a cloak of dark maroon.
What a dandy—a fop! Catherine thought at first, but when she met his eyes, she was thrown off guard. He had the bluest eyes she had ever seen—blue as the sky overhead, blue as the cornflowers growing beside the road. But the power in those eyes made her feel as if his gaze had touched her physically!
“I trust your stay will be a long one, Miss Brent,” he said in a deep, slightly husky voice.
In spite of herself, she felt her hand going out to him as he stepped forward and touched it with his lips. She suddenly hated herself for the thrill that swept through her. Snatching her hand back almost rudely, she said haughtily, “I fear there is little in this place to hold my attention, Mr. Winslow.” That ought to put him in his place, she thought with some satisfaction.
He was not crushed, however. On the contrary, he smiled. “Plymouth is a small place, as you say.” She felt the power of eyes laughing into hers. “But if you will permit me to call on you—and on Miss Martha, of course,” he continued, “I would like to show you a side of Plymouth you’ve missed.”
Catherine opened her mouth to say, “There’s nothing in this town that attracts me in the least.”
Instead, she said, “That would be very nice, Mr. Winslow.”
She hated herself for that response, and had the impulse to reverse her words, but Martha broke in, saying, “You can come tonight if you like, Mr. Winslow.”
He pulled his horse around, then swung into the saddle easily. “Nothing would please me better, but my uncle is arriving from England. I see his ship in the harbor there”—he motioned to a three-masted schooner at anchor in the bay— ”and my parents will expect me to stay at home tonight and help welcome him.” He wheeled the horse around and gave a sudden smile, calling out as he left, “I’ll be there tomorrow!”
“Insolent puppy!” Catherine said waspishly. Somehow she felt he had bested her, and she found herself wishing for tomorrow. She’d put him in his place!
Martha looked at her friend and smiled. “I know what it is, Catherine. You think he’s too proud, and you’ll give him a taste of humility. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Why—!”
“You think that hasn’t been tried?” Martha glanced up the hill as the black stallion grew smaller, then shook her head with a smile of despair. “Isn’t he the most handsome thing you ever saw—proud or not?”
“Well ...” Catherine said grudgingly, “I w
ill admit he’s the most attractive minister I’ve ever seen.”
“Oh, he’ll never be a minister! That’s his parents’ idea, not his,” Martha shrugged. “He’s their only son—the last of the Winslow name, you see. His father, Reverend Gilbert Winslow, came over on the Mayflower and so did his mother. You know how it can be though, Catherine. Being a minister’s son doesn’t give a man a calling from the Lord.”
Catherine tapped her chin thoughtfully, then said with a gleam in her eyes, “Well, I’m looking forward to Mr. Winslow’s call tomorrow.” She laughed suddenly and added, “Those blue eyes of his—they’ve got more of the devil in them than a minister ought to have.”
* * *
Edward Winslow caught sight of Gilbert and Humility standing in the front ranks of the crowd and raised his hand in response to their greetings. The long journey from England had stiffened his joints, and the monotonous diet had stripped some flesh from his bones, but he was still portly as he stepped out of the Fortune’s small boat to the shores of Plymouth. He took a few steps, then began to sway, the earth seeming to reel beneath his feet. Gilbert rushed forward and grabbed him in a firm embrace, steadying him.
“Careful, Brother Edward!” the younger man said with a grin. “If you stagger like that, our sharp-eyed elder will think you’ve been lifting the bottle a bit too much!” There was a light of affection in Gilbert Winslow’s cornflower blue eyes, and since hugging among relatives was not common in the family, he took the opportunity to give his brother a rough hug under the pretense of holding him steady.
Edward Winslow felt a warm glow, as he always did on seeing this younger brother of his. In the past the two of them had been estranged, but since that epic journey on the Mayflower and the first terrible winter endured together in Plymouth Plantation, the two of them were extremely close. The long periods Edward had to spend in England in the service of the government were the harder to bear for his separation from Gilbert and his family.
Clapping Gilbert on the shoulder he said, “By heaven, it’s good to set foot on solid ground!” Then he turned to Humility and put out his arms to embrace her. She, too, was his favorite, and he concealed his shock on seeing how poorly she looked. “Well, here’s my favorite sister-in-law!” he said fondly, and as she came into his arms he noted that she had shrunk to almost nothing since he had sailed for England two years earlier. Her eyes were sunk back into her head, and there was only a faint trace of the rare beauty that had been the cause of several fights on board the Mayflower. Her complexion, which had always been radiant, was faded to a sallow color, and the once rich blonde hair was thin and dry, shot through with streaks of white. Very sick—Gilbert kept it from me, Edward thought as he looked down on Humility.
“Well, well, come along,” Gilbert said quickly, noting the shocked look in Edward’s eyes. “You must be starved after two months of biscuits packed with weevils, Edward. Humility began cooking as soon as the mast came in sight.”
“Lead me to it!” Edward cried, and the two men linked arms and started up from the beach to the settlement that crowned the low hill. As they reached the first street that ran parallel to the shoreline, Edward paused, looking at the neat cottages, each on a good-sized lot. The cold fingers of winter had not yet touched the land, and the thick grass that would be dry and gray in another month glowed with an emerald sheen that almost hurt his eyes. Taking in the white-sided houses with neatly thatched roofs, some of them half-timbered just as in an English village, Edward murmured, “Doesn’t look much like it did when Captain Jones put us off the old Mayflower the first time, does it, Gilbert?”
“No. That was—let me see—thirty-nine years ago, was it?” Gilbert shook his head and said ruefully, “You know what I said to Miles Standish that day, Edward? I said, ‘Miles, this is as close to hell as I expect to find on this earth!’ ”
“What did Captain Standish say?”
“Oh, he swore a great oath—you know how Miles was in those days! Said it was a paradise on earth compared to some of the places he’d soldiered.” Gilbert shook his head. “Poor old Miles. Been in his grave for twenty years now. I still miss him.”
Humility joined the conversation, saying quietly, “I rejoice that he came to know the Lord before he was taken.”
“That’s true, sweetheart,” Gilbert said, turning from Edward to gaze fondly down at her. There was, however, a sadness in his fine blue eyes as he shook his head and murmured, “Not too many of us left—the Firstcomers!”
“Well, I’m left, Brother!” Edward said heartily. “But if we don’t get some of Humility’s cooking inside this hollow stomach of mine, I can’t speak for tomorrow!”
They made their way up the main street leading to the town, past the single street intersecting it. Houses lined both sides of the main street, each with a small, fenced-in garden, now mostly gone to seed. At the point where the two main streets intersected, four small cannons were mounted on swivels. Pigs roamed freely about the streets, serving both as the main meat diet of the colony and also as four-footed garbage collectors.
They passed the cross street and turned into a small house with a high-pitched thatched roof. It was sheathed with unpainted clapboard—short boards handmade by splitting a log lengthwise, then shaving it down to the proper shape with a drawknife. “Come in and let’s hear what’s happening in England, Edward,” Gilbert urged.
The room they entered was dark, illuminated only by two small windows ten inches square, sealed with glass instead of the oiled paper used by many. Humility moved to a cavernous fireplace that took up half of one wall. It was three and a half feet deep, and so high that a tall man could walk around in it. The back was lined with rounded stones, and the inside studded with iron hooks, bars, and chains suspended from a wooden beam.
As Gilbert and Edward sat at the table talking, Humility took some of the goat’s meat she had roasted on a spit and put it on hollowed-out wooden trenchers. She filled three large drinking cups with fresh milk and set out a sharp knife for each of them. Adding a wedge of cheese, she then pulled the loaf of bread baked in an outdoor iron-box communal oven close to the fire.
“All ready,” she called, and the three of them took their places and bowed their heads. Gilbert prayed, “Thank you, gracious Lord, for this good food, and for the safe journey of our brother, in the name of Jesus Christ.”
Edward reached out, cut a huge slice from the loaf with his knife, then laughed, “Gilbert, you have the shortest prayers of any minister in America! I trust your sermons are not so brief, or the congregation will feel led to seek another preacher who will give them their money’s worth!”
Humility had gotten up to get salt and paused to lay her hand on Edward’s shoulder. He could not help noticing how thin and frail it was as she said with a smile, “He is guilty, Brother Edward, I fear. A shame that the best preacher in Plymouth speaks no longer than an hour when others with nothing to say last for three or four!”
Gilbert sliced off a liberal portion of meat, held it impaled on the point of his knife, then said with a smile, “True. It all stems from an incident that occurred when I first began preaching. I heard someone say in a loud whisper, ‘Is he done?’ And then someone else said in a disgusted voice, ‘Yes—but he’s still preaching!’ I think that made me choose to stop when I had nothing else to say.” He shoved the portion of meat into his mouth and began to chew it slowly.
“A dangerous precedent!” Edward chuckled. “Now, tell me how it goes—I’m hungry for news.”
As the two men sat there chewing the tough meat and washing it down first with milk, then with ale, the more common beverage, Humility leaned back against the wall and observed them. Though the Winslow blood was evident in both men, time and circumstance had sculptured them differently, and she was a little amused to see the variations.
Edward was sixty-five, six years older than Gilbert, and slightly taller. He was far heavier, his full face still red; the chestnut hair that had glowed in youth was still t
hick and only faintly tinged with gray. He had a smooth, good-natured face, a neatly trimmed moustache, and eyes of a penetrating blue. He was wearing a fine lawn collar turned out from his throat, tied beneath with a silk, red-tassled cord. A corduroy coat with a double row of silver buttons and silk breeches in the Dutch style completed his outfit. He had an air of authority, and his years of dealing with kings and later the Lord Protector, Oliver Cromwell, had given him a rather ponderous dignity.
Turning to look at her husband, Humility saw a man not greatly different in some ways than the young blade she had met forty years earlier. The face, to be sure, was somewhat lined, but the athletic movement was little slowed by time. He still had the broad, bronzed brow, and the face that tapered down to a jutting chin adorned with a small white scar was only slightly heavier than on the day they had met. Tall and muscular, he wore the plain, dark clothing of the Puritan minister, with pewter buttons and a broad, starched neckcloth folded over his shoulders.
He turned his head to smile at her, and her heart leaped, as it always did, and then a longing to be well again swept her. She had always been his equal physically, despite the burden of childbearing. But now a stranger seeing them together for the first time might take her for his older sister. The memory of that time when she walked by his side, brimming with health (and beauty, so they said!), was more than Humility could bear. She rose and said, “You two will want to go visit the governor. I’ll not go with you this time.”
Edward got to his feet at once and said, “We should call, I suppose, but we’ll be back soon. I’m anxious to see my nephew. He’ll be here for supper?” His astute eyes did not miss the glance exchanged by the pair, and he said quickly. “Well, I’ve a month to see that young rascal—no matter.”
Gilbert said, “Go lie down, dear. I’ll take care of this when we come back. Don’t argue—‘Wives, be in obedience to your husbands’ as the Book teacheth.” He kissed her and then led the way out of the house and down the street toward the governor’s house.
The Captive Bride Page 1