“I think that’s what we’re looking for,” Stuart said. He pointed at a sign that was faded and almost obliterated by smoke and weather. Jared Pounds, Solicitor.
“Doesn’t look very prosperous, does he?”
“No, but I suppose he’s as good as any other lawyer. I don’t trust the breed too much myself.”
Going in, the two men walked up a flight of rickety wooden steps and then down a dark corridor. Stuart knocked on a door, and a man stood there before him
“Ah, Mr. Winslow, is it?”
“Yes, Mr. Pounds,” Claiborn answered. “This is my son, Stuart.”
“Come in, come in. Have a seat. We’ll have something to drink here. Will it be ale or wine?”
“Ale will be fine,” Claiborn said, and Stuart nodded his agreement. They looked around the room as the lawyer scurried about and poured ale into flagons. The heat was oppressive inside the office, which looked as though a storm had swept through it. Books, books, and more books everywhere, papers stuffed into crevices, three tables covered with documents
Pounds simply shoved the contents of one table aside and nodded toward the chairs. “Be seated, gentlemen. Be seated. I think you’ll like this brew.”
As Claiborn watched the lawyer, he was not favorably impressed. Jared Pounds was an apple-shaped man of fifty. Everything about him was round. His big eyes, his thick neck, his fat stomach, even his thick legs filled out his hose until they nearly burst the seams. However, he was by all accounts a clever man, and Claiborn had learned not to judge a man by his looks
“Well, sir, does the ale please you?”
“Very good,” Claiborn nodded
“Very well. I suppose you’re ready to get down to business. I wanted to see you to talk about Lord Edmund’s will.” Pounds shuffled through papers, tossing some aside like a small storm, and came up with a document. “Ah, here it is.” He glanced over it and said, “Your brother Edmund is eighty-six. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir, he is,” Claiborn said
“And you are seventy-nine?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well,” Pounds said, studying the will, “this is as clear as I can make it. Since Edmund has no children, you are his heir, sir. All will come to you, including the title, on the death of Lord Edmund.”
“So I understood.”
“Your brother. Is he in good health?”
“No, I’m sorry to inform you he is not. But one good thing—he has become a follower of the Lord Jesus in his old age. He’s actually happier now than he’s ever been in his life, despite his illness.”
“Well, I’m happy to hear it, then.” Pounds tossed the remark away as a man will toss aside the peel of an orange, picked up a pen, and turned his round eyes on Claiborn. “It’s time for you to make your own will.”
“Well, I don’t really have enough property to make a will.”
“You have some property, I trust, and I would guess you would rather your son and your family have it.”
“Well, of course, that’s true. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“And besides,” Pounds said, leaning back and folding his hands over his enormous stomach, “when your brother passes on, you will have the entire estate and the title as well. But I must insist that you need two wills. The will that’s in force now will take care of your family in case you die before your brother. The second will be written so to take effect if you have already received the estate and the title.”
“That seems wrong to me,” Claiborn murmured. “I don’t like to think of that.”
“We all must go sometime. All that lives must die, passing through time to eternity. If you died the day after tomorrow, you’d have no will, the court would make the decisions. Don’t trust the courts, sir—” Suddenly alarm flitted across Pound’s face. “Never tell anyone I said such a thing.”
“Well, I would want my son, Stuart, to be master of Stoneybrook with the title.”
“That’s easy enough. And you have a grandson, I believe.”
“My son, Brandon,” Stuart said
A silence fell on the room, and Pounds’ eyes narrowed slightly as he watched their faces. “I have heard that he is—irresponsible.” The pause was noticeable. His eyes went from one man to the other but came back to Claiborn. “Irresponsible, that’s all I say. But he is working on his studies, correct?”
“He is a student at Oxford.”
Pounds nodded. “Very good. Perhaps he simply needed to sow his wild oats. And what profession is he preparing for?”
“He’s . . . looking for a profession,” Claiborn answered stiffly
Pounds stared at his visitors and obviously deduced that all was not well between Claiborn Winslow and his grandson. “And what would you like to do with your property?”
“I would like to divide what property I have now between Stuart and his brother Quentin.”
“If Lord Edmund died, you would have the title.”
“Yes, and when I die, Stuart, as the eldest, of course would be lord of Stoneybrook.”
“Very good, sir. Now, then,” Pounds said, “let’s see to the business of these two wills.”
It was now late afternoon. “It’s too late to go home tonight,” Claiborn said. “We’ll have to stay at an inn.”
“Yes, and I’d like to have something to eat. I’m starved.”
“Well, the Red Lion is a little further than most, but it’s worth the trip. They have good meals. I’ve eaten there several times.”
The two men made their way through the crowded streets
The inn’s sign portrayed an animal painted a brilliant red
Stuart grinned and said, “It looks more like a house cat.”
“Not a very impressive lion.”
“Come on. Let’s get something to eat.”
The two men went inside and seated themselves at a table. Soon they were served hot eel pie, fresh bread, and some very good ale
“I never could understand why eel tastes so good when the bloody things look so awful,” Stuart remarked
“They don’t look any worse than some other things we eat.”
The two men ate slowly. Finally Claiborn said, “I need to buy some gifts for that grandson of mine.”
“You’ve always spoiled Brandon.”
“Well, perhaps.” He leaned over and stared into Stuart’s face, so much like his own. “I wasn’t able to give you much, Son, as you were growing up. So now perhaps I try to make it right with Brandon.”
Stuart suddenly gripped his father’s forearm in a rare gesture of affection. “You gave me all I needed, Father. No man ever had a better father.”
Claiborn was touched and shook his head. “We had some hard times during those early years. There wasn’t always food on the table, not good food.”
“We survived, Mother and I and you—and Quentin, too, of course, though he missed the hard part of growing up.”
“What will you do while I look for some gifts?” Claiborn asked
The two men were about ready to leave when Stuart looked up to see a tall man enter the room. “Why, there’s Orrick. What’s he doing in London?” He called out, “Orrick, over here,” and when the man came to stand before them, he asked, “What’s wrong, Orrick?”
“It’s Lord Edmund. Mrs. Winslow said to tell you he’s taken a very bad turn. She wants you to come at once.”
“He was all right when we left.”
“Yes, sir, it was all very sudden,” Orrick said. “And she sent Nap to Oxford to bring Master Brandon home.”
“I hope he will come,” Claiborn said
Both men had the same thought, but neither spoke it aloud. Orrick muttered, however, “Well, she sent to Nap to get him, but he’ll have a time finding him.”
5
The afternoon sun was fast falling in the west as Derward Carstairs looked up from where he was seated with his back to a huge yew tree. His eyes narrowed and he nudged his companion. “Look there, William, what do y
ou make of that fellow?”
William Short had been dozing. He awoke confused and said irritably, “Don’t be digging your filthy elbow into me, Derward!” He looked across to where a man leading a handsome black mare was pulling up a beautiful bay. Short, being a lover of horseflesh, said, “I’d like to have those two horses!”
“You’re not likely to. They’d bring a pretty price anywhere.”
They watched while the man, who was tall and almost emaciated, stood looking irresolutely around. “He doesn’t know what he’s looking for.” Derward grinned. “Come on. Let’s find out who he is.”
“You’re always poking your nose into somebody’s business.”
Carstairs merely laughed and got to his feet. He was slightly under middle height, and the academic robe Oxford demanded of its students covered him thoroughly. He approached the man and asked, “Well, my good man, are you lost?”
The newcomer appeared to be the sort of lean, lanky man who eats like a starving shark and yet never seems to gain an ounce. He had obviously put on his best clothes for the trip to Oxford, but they were not much. He looked at the two men before him and tugged off his hat
“I beg your pardon, sirs. I ain’t lost, but I’m looking for a man.”
“Will just any man do?” William Short laughed. He leaned closer to Carstairs and whispered, “Look there, the fellow’s got one blue eye and one brown eye. Now that’s odd. Don’t know that I ever saw it in a man.”
“I had a dog like that once,” Carstairs said quietly. “Who is this fellow you’re looking for?”
“Master Brandon Winslow. That’s who I need to find, sir.”
Short demanded, “What in the world do you want with him?”
“Don’t know, sir,” the man said. He obviously did know but did not care to share the information. He chewed his lower lip thoughtfully and waited while the two men studied him. “Do you mind where I might find him, sir?”
Carstairs shrugged. “This time of the day he won’t be studying. You can be sure of that.”
Short laughed and nodded his agreement. “Or any other time, for that matter. I don’t know why he came to Oxford. He certainly didn’t come to learn anything.”
The man shifted uneasily, catching their tone of disrespect
“Well, fellow, I suppose you might try the Yellow Parrot.”
“The Yellow Parrot, sir? What might that be?”
Both men smiled, and Short said, “Why, it’s an inn, a place where one can get a meal of sorts. But most of all it’s a place where one can find some—ah, female companionship.”
“Oh, that kind of place, is it?”
“I’m afraid so. Go on into town, and you’ll find it at the end of the longest street there.”
“I be thanking you, sirs.”
Despite his ungainly appearance there was a sort of grace about the fellow, and as they watched him mount the larger of the two horses and move away, Carstairs said, “I doubt if he’ll get much sense out of Brandon. He’s probably been drunk all day.”
“I don’t see how he does it. If I drank as much as he did, I wouldn’t be able to hit the ground with my hat.”
The horses disappeared around one of the buildings, and Carstairs shook his head. “It’s too bad about Winslow. He could do anything he wanted to.”
“If only he wanted to do something other than drink and chase wenches.”
“He succeeds at that well enough.”
“He’s good enough with a sword and a bow.”
Carstairs widened his eyes and nodded once. “I’d hate to have him come at me. Even drunk he can defeat most men. Well, come along. Let’s find something ourselves to drink.”
Polly Townsend put four tankards of ale on the table, which was littered with markers and chips. The four men who sat there were all drunk to some degree, but Brandon, she saw, was so drunk he could barely sit in his chair. She leaned over and whispered to him, “Get out of this game. You ain’t fit to play.”
Brandon Winslow stared at her through bleary eyes. He was eighteen years old but looked five years older. “Oh, come on, Polly. I can beat these fellows with one hand tied behind my back.”
All three of the other players grinned. One of them, a burly man dressed in fine clothes that did not conceal his lower financial status, said, “Leave ’im alone, Polly.” He picked up a tankard of ale, drank quickly, then set it down. “Come on. Let’s ’ave another hand.”
“Sure,” Brandon said. His movements were slowed down by half, and Polly was certain he was thinking at a similar speed. He leaned toward her and smelled her perfume as she leaned over him. “What do you want, Polly?” He reached up, grabbed her, pulled her down, and kissed her, almost missing her mouth. “You won’t leave a fellow alone, will you?”
Polly said, “You need to go to bed, Brandon. You ain’t slept in forty-eight hours.”
“I can . . . go on like this forever.”
The three other men winked at each other with broad grins. The burly one named Matthew Smith said, “Yer right, Winslow. Now c’mon. Let’s ’ave another hand.”
The card game started again, with Winslow losing
It was interrupted when a tall, skinny man came in and looked around, hat in hand. Polly went to him at once. “You want something to eat?”
“No, miss, I’m looking for Master Brandon Winslow.”
Polly studied the tall fellow. He was obviously a servant. His hands were rough and his face was weathered. “What do you want with him?”
“I got a message from his family.”
“Well, that’s him over there in that chair.”
The man nodded; he had already spotted young Brandon Winslow. He moved over quickly to the table and said, “Master Winslow?”
Brandon looked up and had to blink and shake his head before his vision cleared. “Who is that? Why, that’s you, Nap.”
“Yes, sir. Message from your family.”
“Well, what is it?”
Nap looked at the other gamblers and Polly. “Maybe we’d better go outside.”
“No, tell me what it is.” Winslow’s voice was slurred
“Your father says for you to come home at once.”
“Why, I can’t leave.”
“It’s your uncle, sir, Lord Edmund. He’s about to die, they think.”
The words startled Brandon. He straightened up and looked as if he meant to shake the cobwebs out of his brain. “All right,” he said. “I’ll come.”
Smith protested at once, “Nah, you ain’t going nowhere until you pay up.”
“I’ve told you, Smith, I’ll have to get the money from my father.”
Smith suddenly leaned forward. “All right. I’ll take that ring until you bring the cash back.”
“No, you can’t have the ring.”
Smith’s eyes narrowed. “I say I will.” He reached over. Brandon’s reactions were slow. Smith grabbed his wrist with his left hand and jerked the ring off with his right. He tossed it up in the air and said, “Might be worth half of what you owe. You come back when you get the money, and you can have it back.”
Drunk as he was, Brandon managed to lurch to his feet and move around the table. Smith grinned when he saw him coming. “You’re not going to hurt me, are you, Brandon?”
“Give me that ring!” Brandon threw a blow that missed the big man’s face by a foot. Smith struck him a stunning blow on the forehead. The blow sent Brandon down, and by the dazed look in his eye, Polly knew he was seeing stars and colors. He rolled over, pushed himself up, and staggered. Nap grabbed one arm and Polly the other. “Come on, Brandon. You’re too drunk to fight.”
“I’m gonna have that ring!”
He thrust himself back at Smith, but the fight didn’t last long. Smith was a rough character who had bludgeoned many men to the ground with his huge fists. He now took pleasure in driving blows into Brandon, who resorted feebly to trying to block them. Finally Smith gave one last blow to Brandon’s mouth and laughed as he fe
ll. He was about to kick him, but Polly jumped between them. “Leave him alone, Matt.”
“Oh, I forgot he was your sweetheart. He ain’t no man, Polly.” He laughed roughly and then tossed the ring in the air. “Right pretty bauble.”
He looked down at Winslow and said, “When he wakes up, you better tell him I’ll have the rest of my money or I’ll take more than this ring from him.”
The world seemed to be made of nothing but thick darkness. Brandon came out of what appeared to him to be an ebony pit with no light whatsoever. He opened his eyes and moved his head. His lips were swollen, and his ribs ached as though a mule had kicked him
“Are you feeling pretty bad, Brandon?”
The words came from his right. Brandon turned his head and immediately winced. He felt exactly as if someone were driving a red-hot stake through his temple. He waited for a moment with his eyes closed until the pain lessened and then opened them. “What happened, Polly?”
“You were a fool is wot happened.” Polly Townsend was an attractive woman, if you liked well-padded, rosy-cheeked women. And she had formed an unmistakable affection for Brandon Winslow. She put her hand on his forehead and said, “You need to go back to sleep. No way through this but through this. Best you try and do it without waking.”
“How long have I been here?”
“All night. It’s almost dawn now.”
Memory came flooding back to Brandon then, and he struggled to sit up. He was in a bed and fully dressed. “Where’s Nap?”
“The fellow who brought you the message? He’s probably asleep.”
“I’ve got to get home, Polly.”
“You know what Smith said. He’s going to have his money or he’ll take it out of your hide. I did, however, get this back for you.” She held out his family ring on the palm of her hand. He groaned and leaned over to take it from her
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