by Alexa Aston
As if in a dream, Edward pushed himself to his feet. A sea of faces surrounded him but he picked out his father and Raynor among them. A beaming Ancel lifted his sword high above his head in recognition.
“For your outstanding actions this day, Sir Edward, I would like to invite you—and your brother, Sir Hal—to serve in my royal guard.”
Edward turned back to the king, remembering his father’s words and how the last place Geoffrey de Montfort wanted his sons was at court, much less in the king’s guard. Yet, how could he refuse such an offer in the midst of so many?
He saw elation on Hal’s face and his brother nodding encouragingly, telling him to accept the generous offer for them both.
Edward’s gaze met that of the king’s. “We would be honored to become your most obedient servants, your highness.”
As a cheer went up from the soldiers encircling them, Edward spied his father looking on with dismay.
The crowd began to disperse and he saw his brother working his way toward him. Hal hurled himself at Edward, hugging him hard.
“We’re members of the king’s guard!” he exclaimed. “We’ll be living at court, just as Ancel did.”
By now, Geoffrey de Montfort had also reached them. “Come with me,” he said and strode off.
Edward nudged Hal and they followed their father away from the army.
“He doesn’t look pleased,” Hal said. “Do you know what has him so upset?”
“Father doesn’t want us in the royal guard,” Edward said. “He spoke to me about his reasons why.”
“I don’t care what reasons he has. We’re grown men and can make our own decisions. We’re in the king’s guard now,” Hal said stubbornly. “He can’t change that.”
Geoffrey stopped and faced his sons. By the look of displeasure on his face, Edward guessed he’d heard what Hal said.
“I’ve already spoken to Edward about my concerns but you need to hear and take heed, Hal.” He paused. “I know Edward had no way to graciously decline the king’s offer, especially in front of so many men. I’m here to caution you both of what lies ahead.”
“Aren’t you proud of Edward, Father? Of us?” Hal demanded. “The king himself knighted Edward on the battlefield for his bravery. ’Tis an honor to serve as a royal guardsman. Ask Ancel.”
“Be silent, Hal,” Geoffrey warned sternly.
Edward knew that tone. He hadn’t heard it often as a child but he’d cringed when he did. Beside him, his brother stilled, both realizing the severity of what Geoffrey de Montfort spoke.
“You must watch out for each other at all times,” his father began. “The royal guard is full of Cheshire bowmen. You will be outsiders to them. The camaraderie you’ve experienced at Kinwick is not present at court. You will only have each other. Never forget that. Richard’s court is full of false men and women who will not live up to the moral standards your mother and I have instilled in you.”
A sick feeling washed over Edward.
“The king also plays favorites,” Geoffrey continued. “Do whatever it takes to remain on his good side without compromising yourselves. Avoid court politics at all costs. You are present to protect the king, not gossip or take sides in petty disagreements that can blow up with major consequences.”
Geoffrey drew in a long breath and expelled it. “I warned Edward of this but you must also understand this above all else, Hal. The king’s vanity has grown, thanks to the band of men about him that tell him whatever he wants to hear. Discontent is growing throughout England and will continue to spread. I’m not saying it will lead to insurrection but you must be aware of your surroundings at all times. Is that understood?”
Both he and Hal nodded, sobered by their father’s words.
Geoffrey placed a hand on each of their shoulders. “Promise me if the opportunity arises and you can leave the guard that you will.”
Hal reluctantly agreed but Edward said, “I understand your concerns for us, Father. Hal and I will be united as one. If it’s possible to leave court without alienating the king, we will.”
Edward wondered what his future now held.
Chapter 3
Canterbury—May 1386
Rosalyne Parry dressed for the day before heading outside to the small, enclosed yard behind their cottage in order to feed the chickens. The hens—or rather, their eggs—helped provide a livelihood for her and her uncle. She scattered the grain along the ground and watched to see that none of them got into any fights over it. One young rooster was beginning to strut about, wishing to exert his rights within the group. She would need to keep an eye on him in order to see that peace was maintained within the flock, which definitely had a pecking order that must be adhered to.
Under her watchful eye, the chickens feasted. Rosalyne enjoyed watching them. Over the years, she had learned how entertaining and personable they could be. Uncle Temp had even trained a few of them to retrieve small objects.
“I will be back to collect your eggs after mass,” she told the group and returned inside the cottage, brushing her hands up and down her arms to ward off the chill she felt. At this time of year, the hens usually laid their eggs in the early hours after the sun had risen. On Sundays, it gave her time to attend mass and break her fast before she gathered the eggs. Some would be sold but the largest of them would be used in creating her uncle’s tempera paints.
Rosalyne pushed open the door to her uncle’s bedchamber and heard his heavy snores. Chuckling at the noise he made, she shook his shoulder gently.
“Arise, Uncle. ’Tis time for you to ready yourself for mass.”
Templeton Parry cleared his throat loudly and rubbed sleepy eyes. “Good morning, Rosalyne. Thank you for waking me.”
“If I didn’t, you would probably sleep until noon,” she teased.
Her uncle often sat up late into the night, thinking about his current work and ways to improve his painting. He’d spent his early years training to be a knight but when his parents died and left him a small sum as he reached manhood, he’d followed his dream and gone to Italy to study art instead of taking his knightly oath. The secrets he’d learned from his two years abroad had been put to good use, for he always seemed to be gainfully employed, either producing portraits for various nobleman or working on panels for churches throughout southern England.
“Go ahead,” he told her. “I know you will want to visit with Metylda before mass begins. I will see you afterward.”
“Thank you, Uncle Temp.”
Rosalyne slipped on her cloak and tied the cords together. It was one thing to step out and feed the chickens in the yard but quite another to walk the two miles to Canterbury Cathedral against a brisk wind. May afternoons in England were mostly pleasant, but early mornings usually had a chill hanging over them. She longed for the arrival of the warm days of summer, her favorite time of year.
“Rosalyne!”
She waved as she saw her closest friend, Metylda Hann, closing the door to her family’s home.
“Good morning, Metylda. How are you today?”
Her friend linked arms with Rosalyne as they continued down the street.
“I am well, though Father suffers from a most dreadful cough. He was up all night and, this morning, his nose is bright red and raw.”
“I am sorry to hear that, but better coughing than snoring,” Rosalyne said. “Uncle Temp’s snoring could wake the dead. Sometimes, I fear our roof will cave in after shaking so much. Many a night, I have buried myself beneath the bedclothes and held my pillow to my ears in order to try and block out the noise he makes.”
“I like your uncle. I will defend him since he is not here to do so himself,” proclaimed Metylda.
“Oh, I love Uncle dearly. He’s all the family I have or could ever want.”
Rosalyne knew very little about her parents, only that they had died when she was not even a year old. She never quite understood why she hadn’t remained with her father’s brother, Lord Benedict, at the family home onc
e he inherited the title, as custom allowed. Uncle Temp told her that the situation was complicated but he had been happy to take her in as his own daughter.
She laughed to herself. His last name was Parry and so she’d assumed for many years that hers was, as well. When she was nine and introduced herself to someone as Rosalyne Parry within his hearing, Uncle Temp sputtered until she had to clap him hard on the back several minutes. By the time he could speak, the acquaintance had left.
That was when he told her that her true name was Rosalyne Bowyar. How foreign it sounded to her ears, especially when paired with her first name. She told him that she’d always felt like a Parry and would continue to remain one. He had laughed and said she sounded exactly like Lara, his sister and Rosalyne’s mother.
“Lara always knew her own mind, even from a young age. ’Twas how she found herself married to Lawrence.”
His laughter died down after that cryptic statement, piquing her curiosity. But Uncle Temp changed the subject and rarely mentioned her parents after that comment. Rosalyne knew there was some story behind what he did not share with her but she had never pressed him to divulge it. Whatever it involved seemed to make him unhappy and she would never do anything to trouble him. Templeton Parry had been both father and mother to her and taught her everything she knew, from reading and writing to cooking and painting.
More than anything, Rosalyne wanted to be a painter as Uncle Temp was.
Yet, she could not think of a single person who might hire her, no matter how much talent she possessed. Women did not paint or draw, much less get paid to do so. They did not act on stage as mummers. They were not called upon to be troubadours.
Despite the slim possibility that she would ever earn a commission as a painter, Rosalyne practiced her art every day in hopes that the time would come when she would be able to show the world what she could accomplish if given a chance.
They arrived at Canterbury Cathedral, a massive structure and one of the oldest churches in England. It held a tender place in Rosalyne’s heart, for her uncle had painted some of the panels inside. She thrilled to pass them each week when she came to mass, knowing his work would stand on display for many years to come. Mayhap one day, her children—nay, her grandchildren or even their children—would enter the sacred building for worship and smile when they passed by the work of their blood relative.
Glancing around, she saw the usual group of strangers in attendance. These pilgrims had streamed to the cathedral ever since the murder of Thomas Becket, the cathedral’s archbishop, over two hundred years ago. Thanks to the thousands who made their pilgrimage in order to visit Becket’s shrine, revenue was raised from the sale of pilgrim badges made from lead alloy. The badges depicted the archbishop and his martyrdom or even the shrine itself. Her uncle often supplied these badges to the current archbishop to be sold and Uncle Temp had even begun to let Rosalyne create these for him so that he could focus more on his paintings. He told her it must be their secret and she certainly understood why.
Mass ended and she and Metylda exited the cathedral. Once outside, she saw her uncle in conversation with the archbishop himself, who had conducted this morning’s service. William Courtenay always intimidated her. He was an imposing man, a great-grandson of Edward I and once King Richard’s Lord Chancellor of England, before being named Archbishop of Canterbury.
“I wonder what they are discussing,” Metylda said quietly as they stopped and observed the two men. “Your uncle looks very serious.” She paused. “I think I will go. You need to see to your uncle.” Metylda scurried off like a mouse being chased by a cat. The archbishop must frighten Metylda, too.
Rosalyne decided to put on a brave face and join the two men. Her uncle saw her coming in their direction and held out a welcoming hand.
“Ah, my niece. You remember Lady Rosalyne, Your Excellency?”
The archbishop nodded at her regally. “I do. Greetings, Lady Rosalyne.” He extended his hand toward her and she knelt on her left knee and kissed the massive ring that was a sign of his exalted office.
Uncle Temp helped her rise and said to the priest, “Rosalyne is of great assistance to me in my work.” He looked pointedly at her and said, “The archbishop would like me to complete one more panel. It will be placed inside Trinity Chapel.”
Her eyes grew large. The chapel contained the shrine of Thomas Becket and was where each pilgrim visited.
“Many people will see your work there, Uncle,” she said, swallowing as she realized the importance of him being asked to complete such a task.
“Aye, and I told the archbishop I would take it on if you could assist me.”
Rosalyne maintained her composure though her insides quaked. “I would be honored to help in any way you see fit, Uncle.”
The archbishop laughed. “You respond like a seasoned courtier, my lady. Politics aside, will you do it, Parry? And how long will it take you?”
“I am delighted to accept this commission, Excellency. I will take time to consider it and share my proposal with you. Once you have approved of the drawings, the actual painting will not take long. I think in a month’s time or so, the panel will be resting inside Trinity Chapel.”
“So be it. Go contemplate what you will produce. I hope to meet with you by early next week if not sooner, so you can share your sketches with me.” He glanced her way. “You may even allow Lady Rosalyne to accompany you to our meeting if you wish.”
The archbishop gave them a dismissive nod and sauntered away, his robes flowing in the slight breeze. Rosalyne waited until the priest entered the cathedral before throwing her arms about her uncle and squealing in delight.
“’Tis a big task we will undertake,” he proclaimed after swinging her around and placing her back on the ground.
“But we are up to it. After all, we are Parrys,” Rosalyne said. “And Parrys meet every challenge head on.”
*
Edward awoke, drenched in sweat. Images of Saint Giles Cathedral and Edinburgh’s Town Hall in flames slowly receded from his mind as the nightmare dissipated. He’d often dreamt of the burnings that occurred in Holyrood and Edinburgh after that last skirmish outside Carlisle—though never of the fighting itself. He supposed his mind justified battle and the deaths that occurred on the field between armed opponents.
What troubled him still after all these months was the deliberate destruction of government buildings and places of worship, with innocent bystanders being caught in the crossfires. As he’d laid torches at Richard’s command, Edward’s heart told him his king wronged the Scottish people. The monarch’s anger at not gaining a decisive victory on the battlefield resulted in the deliberate destruction the royal guardsmen and other knights and soldiers partook in.
Not only did he resent following orders he believed to be detrimental but Edward hated serving the king as a member of his select guard, mostly because he felt like an outsider. In years past when other Plantagenets sat on the throne—or even in the very early years of Richard’s reign when Ancel served the king—royal guardsmen were drawn from the best knights in the kingdom.
That had all changed in recent years.
The royal guard’s majority belonged to the bowmen of Cheshire, known as the best archers in the land. Some of their number had been recruited by the old king to serve him, wearing the green and white livery issued to them by Chester Castle’s chamberlain. The Black Prince had even used Cheshire bowmen at both Crecy and Poitiers, resounding English victories in which the bowmen played a crucial role. Now, though, King Richard used the Cheshiremen to fill the ranks of his bodyguards. The bowmen guarded the king’s bedchamber all night, rarely allowing any other knight of the royal guard on this duty. To Edward’s disgust, King Richard had unofficially sent members of the bowmen on a mission of intimidation recently. A group of handpicked bowmen surrounded the Westminster Hall during the trial of one of Richard’s enemies to ensure the correct verdict would be reached.
The bowmen’s conceit often g
ot in the way since they’d been given full reign within whichever palace the king resided. Edward heard rumors of cases even involving murder, where various bowmen had been granted pardons for their crimes as the king turned a blind eye to their illegal activities.
His short time at court had disillusioned him, much as it had his cousin, Avelyn. She had served Queen Philippa for a year as a lady-in-waiting and begged to come home to escape the petty politics at the royal court.
Edward was ready to do the same, though as a grown man, he didn’t know how to go about solving his dilemma. That’s why he eagerly waited to speak to his father today. Geoffrey de Montfort, much to the surprise of those at court, had been called to Windsor Castle by the king two weeks ago to help negotiate a new treaty between England and Portugal. Edward had only seen his father in passing but Geoffrey told him yesterday that he would ask for his sons to be present at the signing of the treaty this morning.
Because of that, Edward nudged a sleeping Hal, who lay next to him, and said, “We are to report to the king’s chambers once we break our fast.”
Hal grumbled good-naturedly as he threw back the bedclothes. His brother seemed to be enjoying their time at court far more than Edward had. Often, Hal was assigned to Queen Anne and watched over her and her numerous ladies-in-waiting. Very few, if any, of the Cheshire bowmen pulled that duty. Mayhap Edward should request that he spend more time in the queen’s wing of rooms. He might feel more useful than he did now.
The brothers headed to the large room designated for the royal guardsmen’s meals when they weren’t attending the king or queen. As they ate, Edward revealed to Hal what would happen today since Hal had arrived after Edward fell asleep last night.
“Father said that everything has been agreed to with Portugal and signing the documents today is a mere formality.”
“You spoke to him?” Hal asked, tearing off a piece of bread and chewing on it.
“Only briefly. The negotiations have gone ’round the clock and only were settled late last evening. Father said he would ask the king for permission to allow our presence at the signing of the treaty. ’Tis why we need to report to the king’s rooms as soon as possible.”
