by Alexa Aston
They finished their meals, washing the last of them down with cold ale, and made their way toward the area where the king’s rooms were located. Edward liked Windsor more than any of the other Plantagenet palaces, especially the park land surrounding it. Richard’s grandfather, King Edward III, had been born at Windsor and spent much of his time here, using ransom money from prisoners taken at successful battles in France to build additions and improvements to this royal residence.
When they reached the hallway that led to the king’s rooms, a double line of Cheshire bowmen greeted them. Before Edward consulted one of them to gain admittance, his father arrived.
“My sons are here to accompany me,” Geoffrey de Montfort said coolly, and the way parted for the three men to enter the king’s chambers.
The monarch, already dressed, sat eating. The three de Montforts greeted him and bowed.
Richard looked them over. “I can tell you, Lord Geoffrey, that Sir Hal has proven to be quite popular with the queen and her attendants. She often asks for him by name.”
His father’s lips twitched in amusement. “Hal has always proven to be good company and I am sure he takes his duties seriously.”
“Quite so.” The king dabbed his mouth with a cloth and pushed away his empty cup. “Sir Edward, on the other hand, is most solemn and steadfast. He earnestly takes on any task that I ask of him, much as his oldest brother did. How do Sir Ancel and Lady Margery fare?”
The king looked in his direction, so Edward responded, “They are well, sire. Ancel has enjoyed making various improvements at Bexley. Cyrus turned three last month and talks constantly. Lady Margery is with child again and she will deliver come October.”
“I am happy to hear this.” The king paused. “I know that my grandfather is your namesake, Sir Edward.”
Edward glowed with pride as he recounted, “Aye, your majesty. King Edward and Queen Philippa came to Kinwick several times on summer progress over the years. Mother was a great favorite of them both. She honored me by giving me his name. I only hope I live up to the ideals the old king represented.”
“Hmm.” Richard grew thoughtful. “Sir Ancel served as my eyes and ears on many occasions away from court, being places I could not go and informing me of things I needed to know. Would you be interested in doing the same for me, Sir Edward?”
Excitement burst within him. “I would be honored to go wherever your majesty wishes and report on whatever you need me to investigate.”
“Good. Then I wish you to leave for Canterbury today in order to view the progress being made there on the city walls. Grandfather worried how they’d fallen into disrepair and began rebuilding the old Roman defenses in fresh stone, integrating them with the older walls that still remained. He worried about the French raiding the city since it lies on the coast.”
The king stood and began pacing the room as he spoke. “I have continued this task, though progress is slow. The royal treasury is almost exhausted, thanks to the costly wars against the French and Scots, so I have used murage to fund the repairs instead.”
Edward had never heard the term before. “What is murage, sire? If I am to go, I wish to understand the situation before I arrive in Canterbury.”
“’Tis a toll that is used to build or repair town walls throughout both England and Wales. I called for murage again last year because some of the recently completed construction suffered tremendous damage after the earthquake that occurred there three years ago. We even felt the earth rumble here in London, so you can imagine what damage it did in Canterbury. The funds from murage are helping continue work on shoring up the walls, as well as repairing the bell tower of Canterbury’s cathedral and the cloister walls that were damaged.”
“So what is the mission, your majesty? What am I took look for?”
“Observe the work at hand. See what has been accomplished at this point and how much is yet to be done. Speak to the men in charge of this project and gauge both their leadership and the work ethic of the laborers.”
“How long do you wish for me to be gone?”
The king shrugged. “As long as it takes. Use your judgment in the matter.”
“Then I foresee a few weeks, your highness, if not a month or more. They will know I am your emissary and might put on a show if I am there but a handful of days.” Edward thought a moment. “In fact, I may choose to become a common laborer at these walls and see for myself how the work progresses and how the hands are treated. It might extend my time there but I would gain invaluable knowledge this way, with no one knowing who I truly am or that I represent your interests.”
“Excellent idea, Sir Edward,” the king proclaimed. “I knew I could count on you.”
A servant appeared at the door and cleared his throat. “Your majesty, the Duke of Lancaster has arrived and wishes to speak with you.”
“Send him in.” Richard returned to his chair.
John of Gaunt swept into the rooms, a tall and impressive nobleman. Despite constant rumors that the duke wished for the crown of England to rest atop his own head, Lancaster continually supported Richard and had never gone against the king, nor tried to usurp him in any way.
He greeted his nephew and then turned to Geoffrey. “I hear I have you to thank, de Montfort, for the smooth negotiations with Portugal.”
“I am at the king’s service,” his father replied. “You will be satisfied with the terms, your grace. The diplomatic alliance signed between England and Portugal today will be one of lasting friendship between our nations.”
“And my daughter?” Lancaster prompted.
“The treaty will be sealed by the marriage of Philippa of Lancaster to King John of Portugal. The battle at Aljubarrota assured Portuguese independence from Castile, firmly establishing the House of Aviz, with John the Good as the first king of Portugal. King John is most grateful for English intervention on his behalf and wishes to unite our countries through marriage.”
“So the treaty will be one of mutual support, held together by my daughter’s marriage to King John?”
“Aye,” Geoffrey confirmed. “Your daughter will be Portugal’s first queen and mother to its next king.”
“I hope you are pleased, Uncle,” the king said.
Lancaster’s eyes gleamed with approval. “More than pleased, sire.”
Richard rose. “Then we should go meet the Portuguese ambassador so I can sign this treaty and make Lord Geoffrey’s work officially completed.” He looked at Geoffrey. “What will we call this document?”
“The Treaty of Windsor, your majesty,” Geoffrey replied. “And may it last many years.”
The king exited the chamber, his uncle close behind him.
Geoffrey turned to his sons. “Come, and you can witness an historic day for England.”
Hal strode from the room but his father touched Edward’s arm to hold him behind a moment.
“The king does you a great service by favoring you so, Edward.”
“I will not disappoint him, Father. And I am most eager to leave court.”
His father gave him a sympathetic look. “I feared as much. Do this task well, Edward, and mayhap it will create enough good will to free you to come home to Kinwick.”
Edward sighed. “I would like nothing more than for that to happen, Father.”
Chapter 4
Worry filled Rosalyne as she stood watching her uncle struggle to bring his sketch to fruition. His drawing hand trembled noticeably. He would place his left hand over it and it would still for a moment but when he lifted the stabilizing hand, the right one would begin to shake again.
How could he finish the sketches for the chapel’s new panel—much less paint it?
She slipped away and went to sit outside in the sun with her chickens for company. Rosalyne had noticed a slight tremor in Uncle Temp’s hands when he ate. His wooden cup wiggled slightly and she had stopped filling it to the brim so that none of the contents would spill from it. Raising a bowl to his lips, she also saw the
slight movement in the right hand.
It began back in the autumn, before cold weather set in. When he rejected a few portrait commissions months ago, it surprised her. He usually enjoyed painting people in the colder months. He had told her he merely put off the offers and planned to reschedule them for a later time. Uncle Temp had said his joints were starting to ache in winter and he preferred to paint when the weather turned mild and his fingers didn’t pain him so. Now, she wasn’t certain that he would be able to complete the commitment to paint those portraits—or any future work.
And that included the triptych the archbishop had asked for.
Picking up Mary, one her favorite hens, Rosalyne placed the bird in her lap and gently stroked the silky feathers as the other chickens waddled around the yard, clucking away.
She bent and brushed her lips against the back of Mary’s neck and whispered, “Oh, Mary, what will we do if Uncle Temp can no longer paint? Though I sell the extra eggs that we do not use to create paints, that is not nearly enough to clothe and feed us.”
At least their large cottage belonged to them and they paid no landlord to reside within it. But how would they survive? Uncle Temp had been a soldier—almost a knight—in his youth. But those days were long past. He had reached two score and ten three years ago. ’Twas old, indeed, and he could never go back to being a soldier at that advanced age, much less with the shaking in his hand. Besides, he had no armor and had even sold his sword many years ago, saying he no longer needed it.
True, she kept all of the monies from his commissions and proved frugal in running their small household. They had one servant who came in a few times a week to help with some cleaning and washing of clothes but Rosalyne performed the rest of the household tasks herself. Mayhap, they would need to let Martha go. That would save a few coins each month.
“Rosalyne?”
She started from her reverie, releasing Mary. The chicken flew a few feet to the ground and began picking up feed, a rooster giving the bird an appreciative glance.
“Aye, Uncle Temp? You have need of me?”
“I do. Let us walk.”
Templeton Parry did his best thinking as he walked the streets of Canterbury. Often, Rosalyne joined him and they would walk for miles around the city. They might not speak the entire time but sometimes he discussed with her ideas he had regarding his art.
He offered her his arm and she took it, glad that she felt no tremors within it. She glanced at his hand. It, too, seemed to be fine. Mayhap, she had been imagining things earlier.
But her heart told her otherwise.
Usually, her uncle set a rapid pace but this time he moved more slowly. After they had strolled past many of their neighbors’ cottages and beyond a local blacksmith’s shop, he cleared his throat. Rosalyne knew that was Uncle Temp’s cue to speak about serious matters. She braced herself for what he would reveal to her.
“Over the years, I have tried to teach you everything I know about art,” her uncle said. “I have shared with you what I learned during my sojourn in Italy. Taught you how to view a subject and capture it. Explained which colors to use and how to layer paint to show dimension and shadows. You have been an excellent student, Rosalyne, and listened well to my lessons. You draw better than I ever have and your painting of people has started to rival mine.”
She grew warm from his praise but wondered where this conversation might be headed.
“Something is wrong with me,” he continued. “I know it—and I know you have noticed, as well.”
“I have seen your drawing hand shake some,” Rosalyne admitted. “But nothing beyond that.”
Uncle Temp shook his head. “’Tis far worse, I’m afraid. I am starting to move more slowly. My legs feel as if I walk underwater and am dragging them through it. My face and neck have become stiff and harder to move. I awoke last night and found myself shaking the bed, the tremors were so great.”
“Oh, Uncle!” she cried. Rosalyne stopped and studied him. “I wish you would have told me.”
“I did not want to worry you, my dear,” he said. “But now it’s time you knew in order for me to carry out my latest commission from the archbishop. I have prepared you for this day all along. You have aided me by preparing the woods that I work on and creating the paints I use. ’Tis why I have allowed you to do some of the actual painting when no one else is present.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders. “You will be the artist who creates the sketches for the archbishop to see and approve. And you, my dearest Rosalyne, will be the artist who paints the panel for Trinity Chapel.”
*
Rosalyne rolled the set of sketches up, fighting the nerves that danced inside her. They would leave soon for their meeting with Archbishop Courtenay and she thought she might lose her noon meal before going. Sitting in a chair, she tried to calm herself as she wrung her hands absently. The anxiety mounted as her mind whirled.
Would the archbishop endorse the drawings that she had created? Would Uncle Temp continue to grow worse? Would they be able to pull off the deception and allow her to paint the panels? How could she earn a living to support them both if they failed in this matter?
Exhaling a long breath, Rosalyne had a partial answer to only one of those questions.
When her uncle came to Canterbury, he’d used the last of his coin to purchase their cottage. Both had their own bedchamber and a third also existed which had originally been designated as the place for his work. Unfortunately, the room proved too dark, so Uncle Temp had added on to the rear of the abode, creating a space to work in and store all of his art supplies. He had purchased large panes of expensive glass and included two huge windows in the room, needing as much natural light as possible. On mild days he would throw open the windows to work, allowing the paint fumes to escape while the light shone in. Even in cooler weather, he would allow the windows to remain open while he worked, not closing them until it proved absolutely necessary.
That meant they had a free bedchamber and Rosalyne intended to rent this out for the income it would bring in. It wouldn’t solve all of their problems but it would be a start. She hoped a widow with a little one might choose to move in with them, for she would love to hear the sound of a child’s laughter. Though she longed for a family and children of her own, Rosalyne doubted that would ever come to pass because of her odd position in the community. Thanks to the lineage from her father’s side, she could claim the title of lady. But the only nobility she even encountered involved those she met when she and Uncle Temp traveled to paint some nobleman’s portrait. She was invisible to whoever had hired them, merely someone who mixed the master’s paints and cleaned his brushes while he labored over the portrait. Rosalyne doubted any nobleman would wish for his son to marry a painter’s assistant—even if she was of the same class.
For the most part, she and her uncle kept to themselves. When they did mingle in society, it was with others who were in trade—carpentry, brick makers, and the like. They all knew her as Lady Rosalyne and, though she never put on airs, it was obvious others held her at a distance because of her background. Only her friend, Metylda, who possessed a carefree spirit, treated Rosalyne as she wished others would.
A shadow crossed her vision and Rosalyne looked up to see Uncle Temp standing in the doorway.
“’Tis time to leave for the cathedral.”
Gathering up the rolled sketches, she accompanied him outside. They walked to Canterbury Cathedral in silence as her distress grew.
“You’re trembling,” he said as the church came into view. “What has you so upset?”
“What if Archbishop Courtenay doesn’t like my sketches?”
Uncle Temp smiled gently. “You mean the ones you have labored over till they are perfection themselves?” He chuckled. “The archbishop won’t know they are yours. At least, not now. That will change later.”
His plan involved gaining the archbishop’s approval and having Rosalyne complete the triptych for the chapel at ho
me before having it carried to the church. Once installed, Uncle Temp would meet privately with the priest and reveal to him the identity of the true artist. She feared the man of the cloth would reject the panel outright—and refuse to compensate them for the hard work that would go into the process. Though Rosalyne had not expressed these fears aloud, they had kept her from sleeping well the past week while she and her uncle discussed what the panel should look like and even after she’d finished her drawings.
“We’re here,” she said, tamping down her fear.
Instead of entering the church, they went around the massive structure in order to visit with the archbishop in his private quarters. A servant admitted them and led them to a small room, promising to return soon with the archbishop in hand. They seated themselves and, after some minutes, William Courtenay made his appearance. They kissed his holy ring before he greeted them warmly and sat on the bench next to a large table.
“I am eager to see what you have to show me, Master Parry.”
“I discussed the panel at length with my niece, your grace. Together, we have come up with several drawings to show you. Hopefully, one will meet with your approval.”
The first of the seeds had been planted, with Uncle Temp making sure to divulge her part in the sketches that Courtenay would view.
Rosalyne handed the rolled designs to her uncle and he unfurled the parchments. Handing the first one to Courtenay, he let the priest study it without conversation. After some moments, the archbishop set the drawing aside and reached for the next one. He continued to do so for four sketches and paused.
Frowning, he said, “I wonder … mayhap if you could somehow combine the ideas in the first and third drawings, it would be more pleasing to the eye.”
“Then you will appreciate this one.” Uncle Temp passed a fifth drawing to the archbishop.
