The Honorable Imposter (House of Winslow Book #1)

by Gilbert, Morris

Cecily’s cheeks burned as she remembered his words about the parson, but she made herself smile, and said, “Mr. Winslow, you may depend on it. I will give careful heed to what you have said.”

  “Then this poor parson is amply rewarded, Lady Cecily. My greatest joy is to pass along a little of what I value most to those I meet from time to time.”

  This was a new sensation for Cecily North—to be outwitted, especially by a parson! She made herself smile and curtsy, saying before she left, “I shall look forward to your teaching, Mr. Winslow. The bishop is always encouraging me to attend to my religious duties more strictly. Now that you are here, it will be much more convenient. Good evening.”

  She left smoothly enough, but she knew that he was laughing at her behind that handsome countenance. That would change, however. He was a man, and no man had ever yet bested her. A smile crept over her face and she murmured, “The next time I’ll be ready for our parson!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  TOURNAMENT OF STEEL

  Gilbert Winslow slept until the bright February sun pierced the window slit high on the wall, then a servant awakened him. “Sir, you are wanted by Lord Roth.”

  Quickly he dressed and made his way after the servant along several corridors, up two flights of stone steps, then passed through a set of massive oak doors, probably weighing a hundred stone each, set on hammered iron hinges.

  “Well, well, Gilbert, come in!” Bishop Laud was sitting at a low table, perched on a substantial stool eating meat off a silver dish.

  “Good morning, Bishop,” he said, then nodded his head to Lord North who had turned from staring out a large window to watch him. “Good morning, my Lord.” Lord Roth was sitting behind a massive table covered with manuscripts of all sorts, but the cold light in his eyes required only a nod from Gilbert, and a brief, “How do ye?” to which the nobleman did not respond except to turn his head to look at a map lying before him.

  Lord North turned to Gilbert. “Sit down, Mr. Winslow. It’s time you discover what I have in mind for you. I suppose you’ve wondered why I sent to Cambridge for you to come to a ball?”

  “Yes,” Gilbert said. “But for whatever reason, I must admit that the holiday has been a relief.”

  “You’re not content at Cambridge?” Lord North asked.

  Gilbert shrugged. “It’s not a hard life.”

  “But you are not happy in your calling—the church, that is?”

  “It—was not my choice, my Lord.” North saw his firm lips grow suddenly harsh as he added, “My brother, Edward—it was his decision for me to enter the church.”

  “An able man, Edward Winslow,” Laud put in. “He wanted to enter the church himself—but your father had other ideas.”

  Gilbert bit his lip, turned red, then suddenly smashed a hard fist into his palm, crying impatiently, “That’s what Edward has let get out—that my father wanted me to go as a churchman—but it’s a lie!”

  “You think your brother has deceived you?” Lord North asked in surprise. “I have always thought of him as an honorable man. Just as I have thought of your father. You may as well know, Gilbert, I sent for you on your father’s account—to offer you a post in return for a service he did for me.”

  Gilbert stood still, thoughts racing through his mind. He had wondered about this summons from one of the most powerful men in England and what it might mean for him; whatever Lord North’s reasons, the words offer you a post sent a sudden explosion of release through him.

  He shrugged and said more slowly, “Lord North, you know how impatient young men are. In many ways Edward has been a good brother to me. I have been a misfit at Cambridge, but that is not his fault. You may know, my Lord, I have had several experiences during the last year which have brought me to the attention of the authorities there.”

  “Yes,” Laud said, trying to look severe. “I have heard of your escapades. According to a report you spend more time gaming, gambling, even chasing local wenches, than reading books of theology. I am shocked!”

  “I cannot deny reports, Bishop—since I have been caught in the act,” Gilbert grinned ruefully. “But in my own defense I will only say again, Cambridge and the church was the desire of Edward—or of my father, if what you say is true. I have tried to be that man—but it is not my nature, my Lord.”

  “That may well be,” Lord North nodded. “And if that is so, then my offer of a post may be welcome to you. It is not an opportunity without merit, but it will entail your leaving Cambridge and learning to conduct yourself as a man of affairs in business. It will mean travel, and I suppose that will spell adventure to a young man such as yourself.”

  “Sir, I will do it!” Gilbert said, advancing toward Lord North with a light on his face. “I ask not what wages, how hard the work, I ask nothing, for to be set free from my life as it now is, that is a boon from heaven. I will serve you faithfully as well as I can—and I am in your debt eternally!”

  “You change careers lightly, Winslow,” Lord Roth said. He looked steadily across the table at the younger man and added to Laud and North, “I would think that a young man who can throw over one loyalty so easily would be a rather poor risk. Was there not some sort of vow, some commitment to the church to be made? What of your word there?”

  Gilbert flushed and stood stubbornly, meeting the cynical glance of Lord Roth. His voice was even huskier than usual. “A hit, Lord Roth, I must confess. You have me, indeed. I can only say to Lord North, give me the opportunity to prove that when my heart is in the task—as it has never been at Cambridge—I will let them take this head from these shoulders before I will betray you!”

  “I will have you, then,” Lord North said quickly. He advanced and held his hand out, which Gilbert took and gave a hearty squeeze. “Now, we will work out details of your stewardship later in private, but while we are all here, we must make plans. All three of us are involved in an affair which will require your service.”

  Gilbert looked at the three men, and could not imagine any three more different spirits than North, Laud, and Roth, but he merely nodded and waited for Lord North to explain.

  “Lord Roth and I have several trading interests in common, one of them in Holland. We are in need of a man who will give his attention to the venture, and it is for this that I have suggested you to Lord Roth. You will have my clerk, Tiddle, to assist you. He will know the details, but you will handle the affair as well as you can on your own authority. I will rely on Tiddle to keep you out of trouble, but you must learn to stand on your own feet as quickly as possible. Now, you are perhaps wondering about the presence of the bishop in this matter of business,” Lord North said. “I will let him explain that to you, and I must tell you that if you take the post, I have promised the bishop he will have your full cooperation. That will be one of the terms of your employment with me.”

  Bishop Laud began to pace back and forth in front of the window. He had a high-pitched voice, which he ordinarily kept under control, but Gilbert noticed at once that the matter he spoke of angered him so greatly that he spoke shrilly.

  “You know of the trouble the Separatists have given us, Winslow. You know it because your brother, Edward, is sympathetic toward that vile movement. I fear he has been drawn into their designs, and one benefit you may reap from this task I am going to require of you is the salvation of his soul—not to mention, possibly his head!”

  “You’re not serious, Bishop!” Gilbert protested. “Edward is no traitor.”

  “Perhaps not now, but others have been destroyed by listening to Troublechurch Brown and others of his ilk. We know that Edward Winslow has had close communication with one William Brewster, and that alone is enough to put him in jeopardy.”

  “William Brewster? I don’t know him.”

  “If you did, you would not be standing here,” Laud snapped. “He is a fugitive from justice, from the King’s justice.”

  “What is his crime?”

  “He is part of the Scrooby group, a troublesome pack of Separa
tists and Puritans who fled England ten years ago to escape their obligations to the English Church. They settled in Amsterdam, then moved to Leyden. Brewster was one of their leaders, and in 1617 he set up a press in Leyden.” The bishop gave a short laugh and waved his hand toward Holland. “The press was located, poetically enough, on Stincksteeg—Stink Alley, in English! He avoided that name by adopting the address of his side door, which was located on Choir Alley—and that is the name of the press.”

  “What sort of things did he print?” Gilbert asked.

  “Violent attacks on the Church of England. Especially one called “Perth Assembly,” which our noble Sovereign King James read. He at once demanded that the guilty printer be found and brought to justice!”

  “But he was not?”

  “No, he escaped. Sir Dudley Carleton, the English Ambassador to Holland, was put in charge of the case. He found the press, and French wine barrels stuffed with seditious pamphlets. Brewster, however, had vanished, and is still at large.”

  Gilbert stared at the fat bishop. “But—what does this have to do with me?”

  Laud stopped pacing the floor and smiled slyly at Gilbert. “Why, my dear young man, you are going to find William Brewster for us!”

  “I! Why—I am not a sheriff!”

  “You will be better to us than a sheriff,” Laud said quickly and there was a grim ferocity on his face now. “No officer of the King will ever find the man. Those psalm-singers are too closely knit for that! But there is a way—and it is your employment with Lord North that makes it possible.”

  “The bishop came up with this idea after I informed him of your employment—and your first assignment,” Lord North nodded. “I have a young clerk who is violently in love with a young woman who is a member of the Separatist group at Leyden. His name is John Howland; the young woman’s name is Elizabeth Tilley. He has been involved in the Dutch venture in a very minor way from its beginning.”

  “Exactly! And he is, we think, a member of the church there, although he does not make that public to me!”

  “He’d be a fool if he did, Laud,” Simon grinned suddenly. “You’d have his head in a basket!”

  “I would indeed!” Laud nodded vigorously. “But, here is the plan, Winslow. You will go to Leyden with Tiddle and Howland. You will join yourself to that same body and discover the whereabouts of Brewster.”

  Gilbert stared at the bishop and then at the other two men. North was watching him carefully, interest filling his round face, and Gilbert knew he had no choice but to accept the task.

  “I see,” he said finally. “I’m to be a spy.”

  “A spy?” Laud protested. “Perhaps. But this man Brewster is a traitor to English justice. Winslow, you will be doing your country, and your church, a service by turning the man over to the law. And, I might mention, there is a very large reward offered by the King himself for his capture. Enough to begin your new career with some dash and style!”

  Winslow stood there, caught in a wave of passion. With all his soul he longed to enter the service of Lord North. But—to be a spy! It went against the grain, and there was a revulsion that stuck in his throat at the thought of worming his way into a group—then selling the victim for gain!

  Lord North was watching him closely, and he murmured, “Gilbert, your father was a good friend to me. If you cannot with good conscience undertake this mission, we’ll find another man. And someday I may be able to find other employment for you.”

  “No!” Gilbert shook his head, swallowed, and said strongly, “I will do it, Lord North. After all, the man is a criminal!”

  Lord Roth laughed harshly, and got up, a sardonic sneer on his wolfish face. “And after all,” he snapped as he passed through the door into the corridor, “there is money to be made from it!”

  “Lord Roth will come around, lad,” Lord North said, reaching up with a friendly slap on Gilbert’s shoulder. A warm light filled his face. “You’ll need to stay tonight. I want to meet with you and Tiddle; we’ll give you a good background on the Dutch affair.”

  Late that evening the Great Hall was abandoned in favor of a small room for the evening meal. It was large enough for the thirty or so who sat around the long tables, with enough space left over for the traveling players to put on their show.

  Gilbert could not decide if it were by chance or design that he sat directly across from Lady Cecily North. He had thought at first that Lord North wanted him to be close by so that he could talk more about the Dutch affair, but the nobleman had paid him no attention save a friendly word on the quality of the jugglers.

  Cecily had not been as quiet. At first, to be sure, both of them were somewhat reserved, but as the meal progressed and ribald barbs of wit flew around the room, as the wines and ales began to loosen the tongues of most of the guests, she began to show a little more poise. He found it easy to tell her about his slight acquaintanceship with Ben Jonson (whom she admired greatly), and they were soon deep in conversation about that poet and others. Their tastes were a great deal the same, and both were naturally quick-witted. From time to time, Lord North and other guests who were close enough to hear their talk would listen, but a baffled expression soon revealed that such conversation was of no interest.

  A faint gleam in Lord North’s eyes revealed his pleasure in his daughter’s quick wit and wide knowledge; he had educated her as fully as a woman could be taught in his day. He was even more interested in her response to the tall young man he had taken into his service. Looking at Gilbert, he traced the firm line of the determined jaw, the clear blue eyes and highly arched nose, thinking how much more he himself could have accomplished if he had been blessed with a more well-favored body. Not one to waste time mourning over impossible things, however, Lord North had long ago decided that since he would not have a son to pass his name and his fortune to, the next best thing was to find a man who could have the courage, determination, and wit to hold onto it—or even better, to enlarge it. As he watched Gilbert hold his daughter’s attention as no other man had, he began to hope that he had found his man. Too soon to tell, he told himself. Nevertheless, Winslow was all he longed for in a son. No money, of course—but North had plenty of that, and if the young man proved himself worthy, and could carry Cecily along with him, what could hinder?

  After the sumptuous meal Will Stanton cried out, “Well, let’s have some excitement! Lord Roth, what say you to some fencing, eh? I volunteer to challenge you—again!”

  “You are a stubborn fellow, Will,” Simon smiled. But his face lightened as he looked at the foils on the wall behind him. “Shall we have a tournament, then?”

  A cry went around the room, and the servants appeared to make ready a space for the swordsmen. Quickly they cleared one of the tables, and soon it was filled with rapiers, daggers, broadswords, masks and guards of all sorts.

  “Lord Roth keeps an arsenal, Lord North,” Gilbert murmured as they heaped the weapons high.

  “Yes, it’s his one interest—aside from getting richer,” North said quietly. “He’s one of the best swordsmen in England. He’s already killed one man in a duel.”

  Gilbert watched as the two men chose two foils which were tipped to prevent injury, then set themselves for the contest. There was something deadly about Simon’s attitude, even though it was only a fencing match. His eyes narrowed and there was a strange unholy light in his pale eyes as one of the men touched their blades and said, “Engage!”

  The hall rang with the sound of steel on steel, and the spectators’ cheers began to break the air. “Ah, that’s the way, Will!” Waller cried out. “Keep it up! Keep it up!”

  But although most of the crowd was cheering for the younger man, it was quite clear to Gilbert that there was no contest. Roth was simply toying contemptuously with his opponent. Several times he almost touched his chest with the tip of his foil, then let it pass so that he could play with young Stanton a little longer.

  Then, suddenly, Gilbert saw Roth’s face turn cold, and w
ith a wild lunge he forced his younger opponent to the wall and drove the foil against his chest with such force that Stanton gasped with pain and Simon’s foil bent nearly double.

  “Oh! That’s it for me, my Lord!” Will cried out, rubbing his chest. “I see I have a little practice in store before I challenge you again.”

  A laugh went up, and as Stanton put his weapon on the table, Gilbert found himself staring into the eyes of Lord Roth, and even before the older man spoke, he knew what was coming—and why!

  “It’s too bad, Mr. Winslow, that you are a man of the church. We might have an interesting match, you and I. Oh!”—Lord Roth pretended to be surprised—”well, you are wearing a sword! How odd for a parson! But surely it’s not for use?” Lord Roth’s lip curled and he looked up and down Winslow’s tall figure, then said with contempt in his tone, “But I never knew a parson yet who could do anything well—anything but hide behind the skirts of the church.”

  Gilbert stood there in sudden silence, the red of his hair suddenly complemented by the crimson flush that touched his high cheekbones.

  He knew it was a foolish thing even to consider. He was to be an employee of Lord Roth, at least for one very important venture. To alienate him would be stupid!

  “My Lord, it would not be seemly for me to cross blades with you. I am afraid—”

  “Yes, we can all see that!” Lord Roth laughed loudly, and slammed his foil down on the table. “Oh, do not be perturbed, Parson. I did not really expect to see a person such as yourself behave like a gentleman!”

  This time there was no alternative. Gilbert turned pale, but his voice was steady as he said, “I was about to say, Lord Simon, that I was afraid—that you would be deceived if we were to have a match. My studies at Cambridge have been such a source of boredom to me that for the last year I have sought relaxation—in the art of fencing.”

  Suddenly Lord Roth laughed. “And which of the scholarly Dons gave you lessons, Winslow?”

  “Monsieur Paul Dupree.”