by Alexa Aston
Edward grew thoughtful. “So that could be the reason the people did not resist.”
“I believe that to be true. William ordered a wooden motte-and-bailey castle to be built at once by the old Roman city wall to reassure Canterbury that its people would always have his protection. Years later, the Normans rebuilt the castle with stone. They also reconstructed the cathedral twice—once to replace the burned one and a second time when that one burned, too. The structure you see today is what remains of that Norman effort.”
“And three hundred years later, many English people have Norman blood running through their veins,” Edward said. “At least in the nobility.”
Rosalyne decided it was time to tell him about her background. She didn’t want him being taken by surprise upon hearing it and she also hoped he might open up to her more about his past if she did the same.
“More than likely, I have Norman blood in my ancestry,” she began.
“What?” Surprise knit his brows together. “You are—”
“I am Lady Rosalyne. Actually, Lady Rosalyne Bowyar, though for the sake of convenience, I go by Rosalyne Parry.”
“Is Temp a knight?” Edward asked.
“Nay, though he came close to becoming one. He fostered with a nobleman for many years as the man’s page and squire. When it came close to the time for his knighthood ceremony, he did not undergo it.” She paused, wanting to protect her uncle’s privacy. “You might ask him about why he decided to forego it if you wish.”
“Temp certainly has the size to be a soldier,” he said, “though he seems a most peaceable fellow. I suppose art won out over war.” Edward grinned. “And the world is a better place for that.”
“Uncle would take that as a compliment.”
“But how did he come to raise you?”
Rosalyne frowned. “I know only a little of my story. I fear there is much more to it, probably parts that are too ugly to discuss, which is why he has kept the entire truth from me. I do know my father was named Lawrence Bowyar and my mother was his wife, Lara, who was Temp’s younger sister. They were the Baron and Baroness of Shallowheart, though I could not tell you where the property sits. My parents died of a fever ravaging the land and Father’s younger brother, Benedict Bowyar, became the new baron.”
Her pace slowed as she shared her story with Edward. “I am not sure if Uncle Benedict did not want to care for a small babe or even if he had children of his own but he sent for Uncle Temp soon after my parents’ death.”
“And Temp answered the call. He took you away and raised you as his own,” Edward concluded.
She nodded. “I always knew him as Templeton Parry and assumed I was Rosalyne Parry. When I discovered I wasn’t, Bowyar sounded odd when coupled with my first name. I chose to remain being known as Rosalyne Parry in order to honor Uncle Temp since I have always looked upon him as my father.”
Edward stopped and faced her. “So I should address you as Lady Rosalyne, I suppose,” he reflected.
“Oh, no. ’Tis not necessary. I would not want things to change between us.”
As he studied her, Rosalyne sensed the warmth staining her cheeks, remembering the kisses they had shared and hoping what she had revealed would not prevent Edward from kissing her again in the future. In truth, as a common laborer, he should not even touch someone of her rank—much less steal kisses from her.
And yet, that very thing was all she could think about every time she looked at his sensual lips.
“What I mean is that I hope things will remain friendly between us and that you will not think less of me because of my sire,” she added.
“Think less of you?” Edward chuckled. “Only you would believe being a member of the nobility would be something to hide or be ashamed of.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Nay, Rosalyne, I will think the same of you today as I did yesterday.” He paused. “But tomorrow and the days after might change my mind.”
His touch caused the unusual flutters she’d experienced before to begin in her belly. “Why would tomorrow be different?” she asked, her mouth growing dry.
Edward squeezed her shoulder gently. “Because once I see the panel take shape and come to completion, I am sure you will only grow in my esteem. I have a feeling I will think even more highly of you and your talents once the triptych stands finished and rests in Trinity Chapel.”
Rosalyne felt her blush heating up with his complimentary words—and because of the heat that she saw in his eyes. She turned away from him and set out again, determined to regain control of her emotions.
Pointing to her left, she said, “That is the Hospital of Saint Nicholas. Both it and the Hospital of Saint Katherine, which we will see shortly, were built for the poor.”
In a few strides, Edward caught up with her. “I seemed to remember passing a hospital located near the cathedral. Is that Saint Katherine’s?”
“Nay. What you saw most likely was Eastbridge Hospital. Eastbridge was built as a shelter for poor pilgrims.”
“Do many pilgrims come to Canterbury?” he asked. “Trinity Chapel and the cathedral itself teemed with people when I was there a few days ago.”
“They come from all over England and even Europe in order to see the place where Thomas Becket was martyred by the four knights who responded to the king’s call. The needs of these pilgrims must be met.”
“I assume there are many places for these pilgrims to seek shelter near the cathedral.”
“Along with many merchants selling goods and vendors peddling food to all the visitors that flock here. Even Uncle and I are part of that trade. We create badges for pilgrims to purchase at the cathedral. Several local artists contribute to this effort. The monies raised help fund the cathedral’s upkeep and additions.”
“What do these badges depict?” Edward asked.
“The archbishop prefers that they show Becket, his martyrdom, or the shrine to him. We can make the same badge repeatedly since Courtenay does not require them to look different from one another. ’Tis another source of income for us when Uncle is not working on painting portraits.”
They drew closer to the center of the city and Edward said, “I am recognizing places now from being here yesterday to buy more horehound. Is the cathedral nearby?”
“Aye. It is in the heart of the city,” Rosalyne told him. “The River Stour, which inhabitants sometimes call the Great Stour, has one branch that flows through the city in the south and east. I doubt you have been that far south yet.”
“Nay, but I can smell it,” he said.
“Another branch of the Stour runs around the city, near the walls. If you find work there, the scent of fish will remain in your nose during your work day and beyond.”
He inhaled deeply. “Besides the river, I definitely smell leather.”
Rosalyne laughed. “You do have a good nose. Besides supplying the needs of those on pilgrimage, our main industries are wool and leather. If you pay close attention, you will see many of the stalls sell shoes, gloves, and even saddles that are made in town.”
“Even I have heard of the saddles that come from Canterbury. They are said to rival those made in London.”
She sniffed playfully. “I think they are better than those fashioned in London.”
“Have you ever been to the great city?” Edward asked.
“Nay, but I long to see it one day.” Rosalyne decided to press him a little about his family and see if he would reveal anything new to her. “You mentioned that your brother has traveled to London and is seeking his fortune.”
“Aye, Hal, who is two years older than I am. And if any man can meet with success, ’twill be Hal.”
“Why do you say that? What is he like?”
“Hal is the most charming man you will ever meet. He is comfortable in the company of men or women. Everything has always come to him easily. He is friendly and kind and may not possess a serious bone in his body. We are nothing alike. I am but a mere shadow of Hal.”
Rosalyne
stopped in her tracks, surprised by his words. “But Edward … you are friendly and kind. And you are constantly smiling and teasing with me.”
His jaw dropped. “I … am?” Doubt flickered in his eyes.
“And you are brave, of course,” she added. “For you saved me from that runaway team of horses. Thoughtful, too, because you realized what the parchment that blew away meant to me and ran yourself ragged till you retrieved it.” Rosalyne gave him a warm smile. “I think you are every bit as wonderful as your brother Hal. Mayhap you are even better, Edward.”
She saw the astonishment on his face turn to pleasure. “No one has ever spoken of me in such glowing terms, Rosalyne. I have always been the plodding, serious, younger brother.”
Rosalyne gripped his arm. “Then you have no idea how others truly see you, Edward. Mayhap separating from your brother and family and coming to Canterbury will do you some good. You just might learn more about who you truly are.”
“Indeed,” he said, a mysterious look crossing his face.
Chapter 12
Edward found it hard to believe what Rosalyne thought of him. As the youngest de Montfort son, he had always idolized Ancel, the eldest, while he had fostered with Hal, whom he followed blindly from the time he could walk. Ancel had been the leader. Hal had been the charmer.
Edward had been the invisible one, never seeking attention, serious about life and his duty from the time he was a young boy. He stayed in the shadows while his older brothers shone brightly.
His parents loved him, as did his siblings. That had never been the problem. But others tended to overlook him. He had never been ambitious, rather valuing being steadfast and loyal. It was only a stroke of luck that he found recognition for carrying through with his responsibilities on the battlefield and killing the Scottish soldiers before they could murder the pinned-down Lord Commander. Lord Humphrey seemed to think him especially brave but Edward knew any man would have come to Lord Humphrey’s aid.
The act had earned him his knighthood—and a position in the king’s guard—something he’d grown to hate.
The past few days in Canterbury, away from the royal court, had by far been his favorite in the past year. Not only did Edward enjoy being away from London but he had savored his time in Rosalyne’s company. Being around her was like breathing in fresh country air after being trapped in the fetid, stale atmosphere that hovered over the streets of London.
Mayhap she was right. He didn’t seem so solemn here. He was more relaxed and smiled readily. He liked conversing with Temp Parry, who had a wealth of interesting stories.
And he had cherished the kisses he’d shared with Rosalyne.
She brought out something within him that Edward hadn’t known he possessed. His spirits seemed lighter when he was around her. He enjoyed her quick wit and admired her artistic talent. Rosalyne Parry might be of the nobility but she was living life on her own terms.
Edward wanted this woman in his life. Now—and forever.
He wished he had followed his instincts and the good manners which had been drilled into him and placed her hand on his arm when they set out. Just the feel of her fingers would have brought him comfort and, at the same time, filled him with an urgency. If they were not in the midst of the busiest street in Canterbury, he definitely would capture her in his arms and never let her go.
Instead, he tried to emulate Hal and gave her what he hoped was his most charming smile. His hand took hers and tucked it into the crook of his arm.
“Now that I know I escort a lady, I must do so in proper fashion,” he told her.
Edward enjoyed the becoming blush that tinged her cheeks. He longed to sink his teeth into her tempting bottom lip.
All in good time.
“Thank you, good sir,” she replied playfully.
If only she knew he was a knight. Would she treat him differently? Act in a more formal manner? It didn’t matter. For now, he would take what grew between them and enjoy it for what it was. Once he finished his work for the king in Canterbury, decisions must be made, ones that would affect his future—and hers.
They continued along the street while she pointed out various sites, such as the leper hostel dedicated to Saint Nicholas.
“I thought Saint Nicholas already had a hospital named after him,” Edward pointed out.
Rosalyne smiled up at him. “Then I suppose Nicholas was a very saintly saint in order to have two important buildings in Canterbury named in his honor.” Her head turned away abruptly and he saw she inhaled deeply.
He did the same and asked, “What is that divine smell?”
She sighed. “Eel pie. At that cookshop.” She pointed to their right. “Uncle Temp and I sometimes spoil ourselves and buy one there.”
Edward began pulling her in that direction.
“Oh, no,” she cried. “We don’t need to stop.”
“I want eel pie,” he declared. “I have never had this particular delicacy. I insist we try it.”
They entered the cookshop, which had a narrow frontage to the street. He saw the place was small, with a long corridor running behind it. He supposed it led to the kitchens and quarters where the owner lived.
“Two eel pies,” he said, handing over the coin the man asked for.
Soon, he and Rosalyne had their food in hand. They returned to the cloudless day and leaned against the wall of the cookshop as they ate.
“Mmm,” she murmured, the noise low in her throat.
Edward only wished she could make that sound while he pleasured her.
He bit into his pie and moaned in a similar fashion. The golden crust melted in his mouth. The stewed eels, swimming in a delicious green sauce, were tender and slightly salty.
“I told you,” she said, her deep blue eyes sparkling. “Eat slowly and savor it. Most men gobble down a meal without properly enjoying it.”
“As you wish, my lady,” he said.
Her brows shot up when he addressed her in that manner but she remained silent and took another bite.
They took their time, eating in silence. Edward enjoyed every morsel. “I may need to purchase another one.”
“Not now,” she chided. “We have more to see, including the cathedral. That will take a good deal of time.”
“Do you know much about its background?”
“I have lived here all of my life, Edward. Of course, I can share with you what I have learned over the years.”
He placed her hand on his sleeve again and led her back into the throng of people in the main thoroughfare as she described the history of the church and the murder of Archbishop Becket over two hundred years before. Edward was familiar with the story of the martyr’s death, so his mind wandered as he reveled in the scent of roses that came from her skin and hair and the feel of her body’s heat so near him.
“Are you listening to me, Edward?” she demanded.
Glancing down at her, he said, “I was distracted.”
“By what?”
He looked up and saw they had arrived at the cathedral. The church rose in magnificence before them. Vendors hawked their wares, including the badges that Rosalyne had described to him. Another stall drew his eye, so he pointed to it.
“What does that man sell?” he asked.
She looked in the direction he indicated. Her lips narrowed in displeasure. “He is one of many who take advantage of the pilgrims who visit here.”
Out of curiosity, Edward led her closer and frowned. “What is in those vials?”
“After Becket’s murder, some of the citizens managed to acquire pieces of cloth soaked in the archbishop’s blood. Rumors abounded that a person could be cured of disease by merely touching the cloth. I think that must have started many on their pilgrimage to Canterbury. Those with leprosy or blindness made their way to the cathedral and the monks began to sell small, glass bottles that they claimed contained Becket’s blood.”
Astonishment filled him. “People truly believed that?” He glanced at the small vi
als, all filled with a dark brown substance. “And they think the archbishop’s blood has survived for over two centuries?”
Rosalyne nodded. “Though the monks no longer trade in this, others took up the idea. Many a pilgrim has purchased it, hoping to be cured of their ailments thanks to the martyr’s blood.”
Disgust rose in Edward. “I now better understand the story of the Christ entering the temple in Jerusalem and expelling the merchants and money changers in anger, accusing them of turning that holy place into a den of thieves. These merchants do the same and take advantage of those on pilgrimage.”
She pulled on Edward to lead him away but it still bothered him that many people, including those who had little coin to spare, found themselves deceived by these vendors who surrounded the church.
They entered the cathedral. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dim interior as he dipped his finger into the holy water and made the Sign of the Cross. As on his first visit, the building bustled with people, including many workers using hammers and chisels. Scaffolding filled a section of the nave.
Edward motioned at all the activity. “What are these men constructing?”
“The fire that occurred after Becket’s death did not touch the nave but it has fallen into disrepair. If you look closely, you can see some of the decay. About half a score ago, Archbishop Sudbury ordered that a new nave be constructed. One of the old king’s master masons, Henry Yevele, is in charge of the work. ’Tis said it will take beyond the turn of the century before its completion.”
Edward scanned the large area. The laborers were limited by the length and width of the nave but he saw they had compensated for that in height. From his estimate, the nave might one day be seventy to eighty feet high. He swore that he would return someday when the work had been finished and admire the mastery of the place.
They strolled through the south transept and along the quire and he marveled at the stained glass windows of Adam and Methuselah. She brought him to the presbytery and he looked back across the length of the building, taking in the grand scale of the church.
